


In the Catcher's Mitt

by teicakes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Baseball, Blow Jobs, Confessions, Cooking Lessons, Dom Keith (Voltron), Dom/sub Undertones, Knife Play, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Pining, Shower Sex, Sub Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teicakes/pseuds/teicakes
Summary: Takashi Shirogane's always done things on his own. College? Check. Scholarship? Check. Varsity player? Starting pitcher? Team captain? Check, check, check. But the pressure's starting to get to him, the weight of expectations and nerves getting too much to bear alone. At some point, something's going to give. And give it does, right when it matters most.What Shiro needs is someone he can trust. Someone who can get him out of his head, make the tough calls for him, and let his body just relax in their hands.And Keith just might be that someone...(A silly D/S, pitcher catcher AU featuring two beautiful pining idiots)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miaou Jones (miaoujones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/gifts).



> Sooo... what happens when I get an exchange wishlist that strongly hints at a love of sports AUs, sub shiro, and trust/eye contact? Basically this, starting from the silly idea of Keith and Shiro sharing a bit of a D/S relationship both on the pitch. 
> 
> And of course, because it's me, I need to throw in some pining and slow burning because I like to torture myself. Miaou, I hope you enjoy! Going back through your blog I realized I'd read some of your past stuff in our last  
> Enjoy!
> 
> I'd also like to thank simplecaelum for their help betaing for this! Thanks so much!

Top of the ninth, arm aching, crowd roaring, Shiro waits at the mound. Another batter, hulking and massive, steps up to the plate and takes his place. The third baseman. Tough. Nerves of steel, with a strong swing and even stronger stance. From his last times pitching for this guy he knows his only weak point is the left side of the plate, waist high. Behind the plate Keith waits, glove ready, eyes locked onto him. 

He winds up and pitches. 

Fast ball. Wide. Just outside the plate but the guy swings anyway. 

Strike one. 

He manages another ball before faking the guy out into another wild swing, and takes him out with a strike straight above his knees. 

The next two aren’t so easy. Their tiny shortstop gives him trouble, leading to his first walk. 

Shiro rolls his neck out, trying to fight down the tension being there. 

The next one he manages to get out, even though the walker manages to steal second. Keith’s clucking at missing the throw in time echoed in his own head. They’re one run up, with a runner on second and only one more out between them and victory. He just has to get this one. 

Together the team manages to keep the shortstop from stealing third, but Shiro lets another walk. Still. It’s not that bad. He can save this. He can-

Their designated hitter steps up to the plate and Shiro groans. 

He knew there was a reason why he was supposed to try and go for 3 and 0 but of course in the mix of things he’s been thinking about everything one opponent at a time, forgetting him entirely. 

Shiro rolls his shoulder out and readies himself for what’s to come. 

The first pitch is a strike, but then two balls happen. On the second he feels his fingertips tremble as the ball spins out of them, enough to be wild enough Keith has to lunge to catch it, barely sealing it in the leather of his glove. But by then it’s already too late, the runner’s stolen third. 

Shiro throws another, right to the DH’s knees, but with a sickening crack he hears the noise of wood connecting with stitching and the ball is sailing overhead. He watches it, stomach plummeting, reliving every second of this exact same moment last year, the same sickening feeling that the game was over and it was all at his hand. How they’d all watched it sail over the backboards, three runs come in, and no matter how they chased them they couldn’t recover. It’s over. Their shot at the championship is gone, except…

The ball arcs wide, spiralling off over the third base line and into foul territory. 

Two strikes. They still have a chance. 

Still shaken, Shiro takes the ball back, trying to calm his nerves. As much as he tries to soothe them, his next pitch is wild, his shoulder muscles locking and the ball swings too low. 

Two strikes. Three balls. Two on base and two already out. It’s close. Make or break. He has to get this one, or risk more than just one creeping through. But if he can shut them out, end it all here…

His heart hammers its way up into his throat. Keith is looking at him now, mask pushed up off his face, lips worried into a frown. The catcher keeps looking at him like that, ball still nestled in his glove. Shiro can hear the crowd jeering now, a mix of their own supporters and the enemy’s shouts of encouragement and taunts blending together into a roar that threatens to overwhelm him. 

Keith takes notice. The catcher sits tall, middle and pointer fingers moving to tap the furthest insides of his thigh. Indigo eyes still locked onto Shiro’s, he brings them to his face, pads resting on his cheeks, junction framing his lips. Slowly, gaze never wavering, they form around three silent syllables. 

_ Eyes. On. Me.  _

Keith’s expression changes. It’s now calm and collected, radiating power that crackles across home plate and straight back to Shiro’s toes and up his spine. It’s eyes that have sharpened to points, a single target caught in his steely sights, and Shiro feels a shiver wrack up his spine, even as a warm pool of pleasure begins to form in his gut. 

Keith smiles as he slips his mask back onto his face, eyes still locked dead onto Shiro’s as he returns the ball. It lands with a snap in Shiro’s glove, the impact reverberating up his arm and further warming his body. 

That’s right. It’s not his place to think. He’s Keith’s, his body a tool for whatever the catcher wants. And right now, that’s the only thing that matters. 

* * *

He didn’t find Shiro until hours after their match. He hadn’t shown up to the “pity party” Lance had insisted they throw, a way to forget the loss and celebrate the fact they’d all still made it to the finals that year. He hadn’t been at his dorm, his roommate making that abundantly clear by highlighting the lack of muddy cleats in the hall or dirty jerseys strewn over the lip of the laundry basket. It didn’t make any sense, Shiro had come back on the team bus with the rest of them, even if they whole trip he’d been silent, hoodie drawn up over his hair and face obscured with sunglasses as he leaned against the window. Hunk had suggested maybe he’d just been tired, but Keith knew better. 

He drives up to their practice field in the pouring rain. The lights are out, no other cars in the lot, but he can’t mistake the sounds of cork colliding with chain link, occasionally mingled in with the dull thud of wet wood. 

There, on the pitcher’s mound, throwing with all his might is Takashi Shirogane. 

Keith stops at the gate, watching. Shiro’s hair is plastered to his brow, cap discarded god knows where as rain continues to run down his face. He barely stops to breathe between pitches, let alone stoop down to grab another ball from the massive practice basket before whipping it across home plate, spinning off to the right at the last minute. 

He catches the way Shiro’s teeth grit after that. His next pitch is even worse, spinning down and barely making it over home before it bounces up off the backboards. 

Never has Takashi Shirogane lost control like this in front of his teammates before. He’s always been so composed, so calm, the one comforting players new and old on their team. The one who takes time to practice with the rookies to improve their swings, or will run drills with a smile on his face, dashing at the head of the pack as they complete circuit after circuit until they’re collapsing in the infield at break, and still he’s the one standing, passing out water and making sure everyone is still doing fine. But here, alone on the diamond, that person’s stripped down, that calm exterior washed away by rain, leaving only frustration and doubt. 

Shiro pitches another wild fastball and Keith catches the way his fingers twitch after, Shiro stopping for a second before bending down for yet another ball. His left hand grips his elbow for a second, and Keith makes up his mind.

He’s hoping the fence before Shiro can so much as wind back to throw it. 

“Shiro!”

His shout has the pitcher flinching, nearly dropping the ball but managing to save it with a juggling act that would leave circus clowns jealous. It ends with him on the very edge of balance, half bent over with the ball caught in the tips of his fingers. He can see the shock in those deep brown eyes, the exhaustion in his muscles, and then the mask slips back into place.

“Hey Keith!” Shiro stands back up, a smile slightly too wide to be real on his lips. “I didn’t see you there! I’m just doing a little bit of a post-season warm down before heading over to the party.”

Keith eyes the metric fuckton of baseballs that now litter the sand around home plate. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, “yeah, this definitely looks like just a little warm down.” He closes the distance between them even more, until he’s at the edge of the mound. Standing there, Shiro’s form seems even larger than usual, towering over Keith’s stature. Normally he’d balk at that, sun beating down at him in a halo around Shiro’s head as he stood there smiling like a sun god, Keith’s long suffering crush on their pitcher and captain keeping him rooted to the spot. But this time is different. Shiro’s mound isn’t a pedestal anymore, or his point of command. It’s an island, isolating him in place amongst a field of green. “I was getting worried where you’d gotten to.”

“Ah… I guess that’s right. Sorry about that” Shiro rubs his neck sheepishly. “I left my phone with my stuff in my bag. Guess I made you worry for no reason.” He looks down at the ball, then moves to draw back his arm. Keith grabs his wrist. The muscles beneath his fingers tense, drawn bowstring tight. Almost ready to snap. 

“I don’t think it’s for no reason.”

“Keith…” Shiro chuckles nervously. Water continues to run down from his bangs into his eyes and down the line of his nose. A sharp inhale of breath sucks in between his teeth as Keith’s grip tightens, moving down to feel the overworked muscles of his forearm. He’s like a statue, a beautiful statue on the brink of crumbling to dust. “I’m fine… just…”

Keith’s other hand comes to cup Shiro’s elbow, thumb rubbing against the tendons there. The pitcher winces. There’s no hiding how overworked his arm is right now, not with Keith holding his weakness in his own two hands. Keith’s brain doesn’t even stop to process the fact that this is Shiro he’s touching,  _ freaking Shiro _ , the same guy who’s ass he’d pined over during every stretching session, who’s casual shoulder holds and pats on his back had Keith’s face boiling within seconds. Shiro, who’s somehow managed to become his closest friend on the team, giving him advice in times of need and been a shoulder for him to cry on when his grandfather passed away. But then again, that’s not  _ this  _ Shiro. That is Shiro, varsity star pitcher and rising talent, spreading his light to his entire team to pull them up, and this is  _ Shiro _ , stripped away from all those titles and responsibilities, standing here for what he is. 

Frustrated. Exhausted. And pushing himself beyond where he should, without another shoulder to lean on. 

“You’re pushing yourself too far,” he says, voice as steady as he can make it while staring up at that face.  _ God… had Shiro’s eyes always had that tint of grey to them? _ “Your collateral ligament’s overworked, you do much more and it could get a lot worse than just being a bit inflamed.” 

“It’s not that bad… I can just ice it later-”

“ _ No, _ ” and even Keith is surprised at the authority in his voice. “Shiro… you’re out here pitching in the pouring rain without so much as a cap or jacket… after a  _ double header _ of all things. You’ve thrown enough today. I… I don’t care what kinds of traditions you have after a big game, or how many dozen of balls you need to meet them. Come with me to the dugout, I’ll wrap your arm.”

“Keith…”

He steals the ball out of Shiro’s outstretched palm and whips it out towards home plate. It collides hard with the fence, shaking the droplets from it. Shiro’s staring at him, mouth agape, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Do it for me,” he says. He holds his hand out to Shiro, rain pooling in his palm. “I’m your partner, right? That’s what you told me when I was picked to play catcher. You and me are in this together and neither of us can do this alone.”

They both stand there, pitcher and catcher frozen in the midst of a dimly lit diamond, clothes plastered to their bodies as the sky beat down on them. Keith blinks through his sopping bangs, trying to keep his gaze steady on Shiro. What he was trying to say with that look he wasn’t sure, but all he knew was that he would do everything in his power to bring this washed out Shiro back to a place he was truly happy. 

All it needed was for Shiro to take that first leap of faith and take his hand. And slowly, neither of them looking away from one another, Keith felt large, rain-numbed fingers slide into his own. 

He smiled. 

“My car’s warm. And I’m pretty sure there’s a mean hot chocolate back at my place with your name on it.”

A sliver of a smile appeared on the pitcher’s face, and Keith knew everything would be alright. 

* * *

He still wasn’t quite sure all this was real. Keith stood at the tiny kitchenette of his studio apartment, stirring Kraft Dinner with one hand and hot chocolate with the other. Across the counter from him, sitting on the corner of his bed, was Shiro. 

He’d managed to talk him into coming back with him to his place after getting him to his car, then got him out of his soaked uniform and into a hot shower. _Fuck…_ _Shiro had been in his bathroom, naked, using the same soap as he did god knows where_. And now he was sitting there in Keith’s own clothes, his biggest t-shirt and basketball shorts, which still managed to hug his form despite how they hung of Keith’s body like tents, quietly stroking Keith’s enormous hippo plush. 

“I didn’t know you liked hippos so much,” he says as Keith comes to sit down beside him, TV-dinner tray pulled up beside them with the cocoa and macaroni. “Somehow I always pictured you as a dog person.”

“Eh, you’re not wrong,” Keith shrugged. “I’ve got a dog, but he’s living with my mom while I’m here at school.”

Shiro’s eyes light up. They almost sparkle over the bowl of toxically orange noodles he picks up from the tray. “Really? What’s his name? What breed is he?”

Keith can’t help but smile at that response. “Kosmo. And I’m not sure exactly. Mom’s pretty convinced he’s part sheltie but there’s got to be something else in him cause he’s  _ huge _ .” He pulls a photo up on his phone, and is happy to see Shiro’ mood improve even further at the sight of his enormous fluffball and the pitcher’s favourite guilty college meal. He picks up his own bowl and takes a few bites. 

“So…” he says after Shiro takes his second gulp of hot chocolate, “do you want to tell me the real reason you were out pitching in the rain tonight? And don’t tell me it’s some pitcher right of passage thing. You were one Adele song away from being a sad music video.”

Shiro chokes on his noodles and takes two huge swigs of hot chocolate to get his face back somewhere close to normality. When he finally does, there’s that same air of fake innocent as he peers over his mug at Keith as when Kosmo’s chewed another pair of Keith’s leather gloves. 

“It… it didn’t look that bad, did it?”

“Shiro you were soaking wet and your arm was ready to give out, I’m pretty sure it’s something.” Keith nods at the doozy of a taping number on Shiro’s elbow as he stirs his pasta. “That took me fifteen minutes to do. If you’d stopped going after the tournament I could have done it in two.”

“I’m sorry. Thanks for that by the way. It feels better already.”

“Eh,” he shrugs, still frowning up at Shiro over a forkful of KD, “might as well put that human kinetics course to use. But you’re still avoiding the subject.  _ Dish _ .”

Shiro sighs, fingers wound tight around his mug. Keith’s favourite one, decorated in little running dogs and rabbits. “You’re going to think I have an inflated ego if I tell you.”

“Shiro, the fact that you think I’d think you’d have an inflated ego shows you don’t. Now tell me.”

“Okay, okay…” He screws up his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, right where the faint scar traced across it. “So maybe… I might be… not taking this loss the best.” He pauses, looking up at Keith and the sheer  _ ‘well… duh’ _ look on his face. “But… I’m guessing you pretty much already guessed that.”

“No… really?” He spears a noodle on his fork, flicking radioactive cheese sauce over his sweats. “I had  _ nooooo  _ idea. But why exactly? You’ve never been upset when we lost any other time. Heck, when James fumbled that catch that led to a grand slam you spent an hour with him trying to cheer him up and tell him it was no big deal.”

“That’s different.” Shiro thumbs the side of his mug. “He was doing his best, and I didn’t want it to get into his head that he wasn’t a good player. We all fumbled that, there was so much that led up to when he missed that catch, blaming it on him wouldn’t do anyone any good. But tonight… tonight… that  _ was _ all my fault.”

“Shiro, I’m pretty sure it wa-”

“I know, I know…” He cuts Keith off with a wave of his hand. “It sounds so stupid, thinking that the whole game was riding on me, but  _ that _ ? No one else threw him that easy pitch, no one else set him up to hit something that we couldn’t save. It was just me, letting my nerves get to me and sending all our chances at winning up in smoke. I always do this… I did this on my high school team, even in little leagues. As soon as we got close to the pennant I’d freeze up somewhere and everything’d fall to pieces. I thought if I helped build everyone else up this year it’d be different, that if I messed up it wouldn’t matter, but in the end my mistakes still cost us everything.”

“No one’s saying that Shiro, you can’t say that that’s the only reason we didn’t win-”

Except a person could say that. As soon as that triple came in all their momentum had slowed to a halt. The Lions, usually so calm and sure of themselves, started to doubt. Swings got wilder, calls got weaker, and Shiro’d gotten progressively more and more worked up on the mound. From where he’d stood, right behind home plate, Keith had been the witness to all of it. Their foundation, the pillar of strength the whole team relied on had cracked, and they hadn’t been able to support him long enough for the cracks in his confidence to heal. 

And now here he was, sitting on Keith’s bed, sadly shoveling Kraft Dinner into his mouth, crumbled and hurting. And they both know it. 

Keith gnaws at his lip, watching as Shiro continues to finish the pity meal Keith’s made him. Really… he could have made proper mac and cheese, fresh noodles and non-powdered sauce, but looking at him right now, he’s not sure that would make much of a difference. A gourmet meal isn’t going to solve Shiro’s problems and lost confidence, it certainly isn’t going to turn back time and give them the cup. What Shiro needs now, more than anything, is a friend to stand by him, and help him back on his feet. And no matter how much his heartbeat quickens at the idea, Keith’s ready to do anything for Shiro

“I’ve decided.”

Shiro blinks at him over his now empty bowl. “Decided? Decided what?”

“I’m going to help you Shiro. We’re going to get over this loss, we’re going to get even stronger as a team. I’m your catcher, and you’re my pitcher. We’re a set, and if I can’t make you succeed on the mound what good of a player am I?”

“ _ Keith… _ ” Shiro starts, but he’s shushed with a wave of Keith’s finger.

“I’m going to help you get past this, until you don’t have to worry about getting stuck in your head, and this whole tournament panic is a thing of the past. You and I, we’re going to be totally in synch, one mind, two bodies, staying calm no matter what. And then next year we’re going back to that tournament and winning it all.”

His body’s thrumming with energy, as hyped on adrenaline as it had been this morning before the start of their first game. Except this time it’s different. It’s not just a match against strangers, it’s Shiro, and he’s practically promising him the world right now, ready to be his right hand man, his support when he stands ready to carry the whole team on his shoulders. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he doesn’t feel another type of fluttering in his stomach at the prospect. 

Shiro looks at him, then down at his bowl, then back to Keith. The dishes are discarded back onto the tray, Keith’s own stacked atop Shiro’s, and before he knows it he’s crushed against Shiro’s chest, those big strong arms squeezing him tight. 

“Thank you Keith,” Shiro breathes in his ear. “Thank you… You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Keith can only nod and let his own arms wrap around Shiro, guiltily pressing his face a little closer into the man’s chest. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting these up as fast as I can tonight, but I have to adjust formatting as I go, so it might be an hour or so before they're all up! Hopefully it's faster then y'all read

Season over, practices winding down to two a week, Keith and Shiro begin to meet more and more outside of the diamond, throwing back and forth in the quad or the field behind Shiro’s apartment. Even though Keith promised to help Shiro find a way to circumvent his nerves, he’s still trying to figure out exactly how. They can come up with as many new signals as they want, practically creating a new sign language only the two of them know, but practicing them in a lazy afternoon game of catch doesn’t do anything to test how they — or Shiro — will fair under pressure. 

He brings it up during one of these sessions, right as Shiro’s curveball lands with a snap in his glove. 

“I mean… we have some exhibition games coming up,” Shiro says as Keith returns the pitch. “We could see how it goes there, maybe try to set some type of stakes to add some pressure on.”

“How bad is it exactly? This mental thing for you?” Keith lunges to catch a low lob. 

Shiro frowns as he winds up again. “Not that bad? At least, not most of the time, so long as I feel like I’m still in control of the situation. I think that’s what sets me off, when I feel like all my backups are going to fail and it's just up to me. And then again, it’s one thing if it's just an early season game. Late season and tournament… that’s something else entirely. I just stop trusting myself as soon as something goes wrong.”

“Sounds pretty bad to me. Half the team swears you don’t have a fibre of doubt in your whole body.”

A snort leaves Shiro on the next pitch. “Yeah, well, they’ve never been inside my head. And I try not to show it. I figure if I seem like I’m keeping calm, I can keep the others that way too.”

“Not gonna lie, you’re usually pretty good at it. I didn’t see you freak out at all until that match.”

The next pitch nearly spins into Keith’s face, so far off from his glove he only manages to grab it at the last second. Shiro’s eyes are wide with shock and guilt.

“Sorry Keith!” And he can tell just how sorry he is, as sorry as that game still remains a sore spot for him. 

“S’no big deal.” He throws the ball back, a little harder than intended. “I think I might have deserved that one.”

“No, you really didn’t.” The ball connects with his glove, this time slipping in like silk and stopping perfectly at his palm. “I guess I’m not as over it as I keep telling myself I am.”

“Well, how do we help make you?”

Shiro shrugs, taking a break to roll his shoulder out. “I dunno. Somehow I have to stop thinking and get out of my own head.”

* * *

As it turns out, Shiro does not get out of his own head during the exhibition game. It’s Keith’s idea to bring on some third stringers to fill the gaps in teammates taking exams or off on vacation already, people Shiro hasn’t had a chance to properly train with or get to know. 

After the first baseman and the right fielder flub plays, he can see some of those cracks starting to form. The other team’s picked up on their weaknesses and is doubling down on them, sending ball after ball towards them and doing little to build the two rookies’ confidence. Shiro has too, lips worried into a thin line as he watches the first baseman miss a catch from second and allow the runner to make it back safely. The guy is cracking under pressure, and Shiro hasn’t known him long enough to help train him under pressure.

Even if they’re leading by four, he can tell Shiro’s shaken. He’s more tense as he releases now, form off from what Keith’s used to seeing in their practices together. He still manages to hold together, strike out three batters in a row in the next inning, but he’s starting to slip. He’s no longer focused on Keith, eyes wandering around the diamond, trying to judge his next move. 

Keith rocks forwards, right knuckle brushing the ground. A sign to throw to the edge of the strike zone low and slow, try and fake the batter into thinking its a ball. Instead Shiro whips a fastball down the centre of the plate, barely grazing the bat and sending it flying up into the netting above. The runner on first steals second. Keith fusses inwardly as he tosses the ball back to Shiro, eyes cold and locked onto the pitcher’s face as he sets up again. He ignored his signal, going for something else entirely. Shiro’s looking towards home, but not so much at him, as through him, distracted by something five feet behind Keith’s head. 

_ He’s calculating _ , Keith realizes. Overthinking things in his head and questioning his instincts on what’s right. Even if Keith’s there to reassure them, confirm them with directions, Shiro’s ignoring what they both know is right for split second decisions. As much as the trust should be there, it’s breaking down, Shiro unable to cool his nerves down even with Keith at his side. 

They end up winning the game, but only by one run. As much as Shiro smiles at the celebration in the locker room, he knows it's a brave show. They both know the test failed. And if it failed here, in a game that barely matters, there’s next to no hope the same thing will work come next season. 

That night he ends up curled up in bed, laptop on his stomach, googling his troubles. 

_ How to get over performance anxiety. _

_ How to stop doubting yourself. _

_ How to trust others. _

_ How to make a friend trust you.  _

_ How to fully trust someone.  _

The hits aren’t anything beyond the usual self-help page, mumbo jumbo and fluff words that Keith already knows as common sense. He needs to find some way to make Shiro to trust him completely. Some way that instead of overthinking and shutting down completely when fumbling, Shiro just lets his brain turn off, letting Keith doing all the thinking for him. That kind of trust, where Shiro’s body can just react on instinct and leave all those other thoughts behind. 

He types in that big mess into the search bar. A handful of hits show up, a few of the top ones Reddit and forum threads, the titles so completely out there he has to stop to make sure he’s read them right. 

_ How to build a submissive’s trust. Making your sub fully obedient. _

Keith’s tongue feels thick and dry in his mouth as he stares at the preview text beneath both hits. That wasn’t… he wasn’t looking for that kind of relationship with Shiro. But… if it could help their situation…

Keith clicked on the first link, and his descent down the rabbit hole began. 

* * *

Shiro stands at Keith’s doorstep, perplexed to find the other man in an oversized sweater and jeans instead of his usual workout gear. 

“Aren’t… aren’t we practicing today?” he asks as Keith guides him inside with a hand. There’s no sign of his mitt, he’s not even wearing socks, trading them in for fuzzy slippers instead. He stands there, waiting until Shiro takes off his shoes in the foyer. 

“Yes and no.” He leans against the closet door, and Shiro can’t help but notice how his collar slides down with the motion, exposing a swath of his collar bone. “We’re practicing alright, but it's not baseball.”

“But… wasn’t the whole point-”

Keith raises a finger to his lips. “To get you out of your head and to stop doubting yourself? Yeah. We tried that already with signals and normal practice, but you still had trouble last game.”

“Don’t remind me.” Bottom of the seventh and he’d gone and started to overthink it, letting two more runs slip through before managing to salvage things. 

Keith frowns, and a line forms between his brows. “You stopped paying attention to my signals Shiro. I was trying to help you, reassure you your calls were right, and you blacked out there on your own for an inning and a half.”

“I know…” and he does. When he finally snapped back into it he’d seen to relief on Keith face as he’d returned his signs in turn. “I don’t know exactly what happened. At first I was keeping calm, and then I couldn’t trust every call I made.”

“Exactly. Which means we need to make you learn to put your trust in someone else, take the responsibility out of all decisions that have to be made.” Keith slides along the wall, turning tail to move further into his apartment. Shiro follows at his heels. “And that goes beyond just what happens on the diamond, you have to have that same trust whenever you’re doing something that makes you anxious. Just learn to shut your brain off and trust. Trust me.”

He spins around, and Shiro realizes why Keith made him come here. 

On the counter is a full spread of vegetables and ingredients, more spices than Shiro knows what to do with. And beside them, propped up against the lip of the backsplash, is a cookbook, open to a ridiculously complicated looking photo of vegetable wafers arranged to perfection.

“Keith…” Shiro’s voice wavers, “what exactly is this?”

“Confit byaldi,” he smiles, settling into the stool across the counter from Shiro. “And you’re going to make it.”

No. 

No. Keith has to be kidding. It’s so well known on the team,  _ heck,  _ around campus that Shiro’s an absolute disaster in the kitchen. His first year on the team he’d nearly set a senior’s apartment on fire when they’d gotten him to help fry some mozzarella sticks, and that was just the most high profile instance. There were countless messes burnt into pans, apartments filled with smoke when he’d forgotten something in the oven… hell… Shiro didn’t make anything aside from instant noodles, mac and cheese, and microwaved veggies, relying on all manner of takeout for everything else. He could barely dice an onion without rubbing that juice in his eyes and crying to the point he nearly lost a finger. And here Keith was, patting a cutting board with a  _ way too sharp _ knife and smiling at him. 

“You’re crazy,” Shiro croaks. “I’m going to kill myself. You’re going to get killed in the crossfire, this entire apartment building’s going to go up in flames. I’m terrible-”

“Which means it’s perfect. You’re scared shitless of cooking and don’t trust yourself with it at all. But you trust me.”

“Well, yeah, that’s because-” and then Shiro gets it. The real reason Keith was forcing this impossible task on him. Not to watch him go down in flames, but help him through them. “You’re going to walk me through it, aren’t you?”

Keith nods. “Bingo. I figured we can get you trusting me here in the kitchen, and then move it more and more to the diamond.”

Shiro eyes the knife again. “And you’re sure I’m not going to lose a finger?”

“Sure as summer. Now wash your hands and let’s get started.”

Keith eases him into it surprisingly slowly. At first, all Shiro needs to do is bring a pot of water to a boil and roast a few peppers in the oven. He’s about to look back at the book for time, but Keith’s confiscated it. 

“Ah ah ah Shirogane,” clucks Keith over a can of soda. “I’m your guide in this kitchen, not some book. I’ll tell you when they’re ready. Now, start peeling some garlic.”

Shiro does as he’s told, scrubbing veggies and peeling a half dozen cloves before Keith gets him to take the tray out of the oven, catching him at the last minute before he sticks his bare hands in to grab the pan. Much to his relief, they aren’t burnt, but now Keith’s getting him to boil tomatoes and ‘blanch’ them, scooping them out of the hot water almost as soon as he’s put them in. 

Keith’s voice is soothing, Shiro realizes, letting himself slip more and more under its spell as he moves. Keith has a way with words, giving out lazy commands more like a stream of consciousness than orders, almost as if he’s reliving the experience himself instead of just reading it off a page. He likes it, Keith’s way with words. Just when he’s about to wonder what’s next he’s there, guiding him into the next step until he’s got a full blender of sauce beside him and a cutting board of eggplant in front of him, knife glinting from beside his right hand. 

Shiro gulps. His knife skills have always been shit, he still always uses steak knives for everything since they’re small and harmless enough for him to trust himself with them, but this is a freaking chef’s knife. Big and straight and sharp, and Keith’s telling him he needs to use it to cut slices so thin he swears it's impossible. 

His hand trembles as he picks up the knife. God it’s heavy. And knowing how Keith keeps his kitchen, wicked sharp. He barely has to press down to slice off the stem and the heel, and then Keith’s talking to him, instructing him to start slicing perfect millimetre thick rounds. 

 

A bead of sweat rolls down the bridge of Shiro’s nose. How thick was a millimeter again? How could he get perfect rounds without sloping off to the side? His hand begins to shake more, knife nearly touching his thumb, and he jumps back, the metal clattering to the counter. He looks up for Keith, but the catcher isn’t there in front of him. 

Arms slide around Shiro’s chest and make him jump anew, until he realizes them for what they are. Keith’s. The catcher gently guides him back to the counter, hands at his wrists, steadying his fingers as he peers around Shiro’s side. He can feel where Keith’s body presses up against his own, chest against the curve of his back just below his shoulder blades. Ever so often he can feel his warm breath on his arm. 

“Stay steady Shiro,” Keith says, and there’s a flicker of concern there. Right. Keith didn’t want him to get hurt any more than he did. But he also wanted him to finish this. The vegetables were his last big hurdle in this dish, all that was left after was assembly. He tries to steady his breathing as Keith’s grip tightens on his hands, guiding them back to the eggplant and the knife. 

“You’re going to go slow,” Keith continues. “Pick up the knife.”

Shiro does as he says, and he’s guided over to the vegetable, blade poised over the edge. With Keith’s hold on him, there’s no more room for shaking. 

“Left hand. Make a fist.” Shiro follows, not quite sure where this is headed. Is he supposed to punch it now? Is the knife just a red herring? “Now relax it, but keep your fingers curled. Yes… just like that, like a cat paw. A cute little cat paw.” 

Shiro’s ears flush at that. 

“Paw to eggplant. Steady it. If we don’t have fingers in the way, there’s no way we can hurt them, right?” Shiro nods, and before he knows it the knife is being guided to the edge of the eggplant, steel barely touching his outstretched knuckles. 

“Just like that…” Keith coos. “Good job. Now… let gravity and the knife do all the work. Slow down, slow up.” He follows the voice, and a single perfect shingle falls to the cutting board. “And again.” Keith says. “Let the paw guide the knife, steady it in place. Never lift up higher than you have to. Just up and down. Up and down, all the way, there we go…”

Shiro does as he’s told, and before he knows what’s happened the eggplant is gone, turned to disks on the cutting board. Perfect little circles, slightly uneven, but clean of blood or jagged edges. A little bubble of euphoria breaks from his lips. 

“I… I did it.”

Keith rests his chin on Shiro’s arm, smiling down at his handiwork. “You did. Now, wasn’t that easy when you just stopped thinking and started listening?”

“It was.”

“You ready for the squash now? You’ve still got an awful lot of slicing left to do, and I’m starving.” Keith makes to leave from where he’s wrapped around Shiro, but he stops him.

“Actually,” he says, holding Keith’s hand where it is. “I think I could do with a bit more support. At least, for the next one.”

There’s a blank expression on Keith for a second, and Shiro almost worries he’s said something to upset him, maybe suggesting his help still hadn’t been enough. But as soon as it was there it’s gone, replaced with an easy smile and downturned eyes as Keith’s hands return to the backs of Shiro’s palms. 

“Very well.” says Keith. “But next we’re doing the blanched tomatoes. I want them so thin I can see through them. 

* * *

It takes the better part of an hour, but at long last the dish is in the oven, layered and sauced to perfection. Keith had held his hands the entire way through the chopping process. Even though Shiro’s confidence had started to build on the final zucchini he’d kept quiet, wanting that warm bulk of reassurance at his back as he made his way through it all. Almost too soon it had been gone, and then the two of them had sat had stood on either sides of the counter, shingling slices of vegetables into a spiral and chatting. 

It felt… nice. Shiro hasn’t been this relaxed in a kitchen since he was a kid and the only thing he knew how to make was peanut butter on toast. As they finished the final spiral and put in the the oven, Keith turned around to smirk up at him, arms crossed across his apron. 

“So… how did that feel?”

“Surprisingly… good? I was still nervous the whole way through, but you being there guiding me through made it a whole lot easier. Chopping was still stressful through. I don’t know if I’d have been able to do it if you hadn’t stepped in. I’ve had a few scares with big knives before.”

“The only dangerous knife is a dull knife,” Keith says, wiping it down and giving it a few passes on a sharpener before returning it to its block. “If you have control, you have safety. But I’m glad it didn’t freak you out too much. Hopefully next time you’ll be able to do it without my help.”

Shiro nods, eyes still fixed on Keith’s hands. That was right. He was supposed to have done this all on his own. And as happy as Keith seemed now, he knew he could do better. Even as they ate the...  _ convict..? byalia? _ , he couldn’t help but wonder how Keith’s reaction would differ if it had only been his hands that touched the food. 

* * *

Break comes and goes, and with it Keith and Shiro make dozens of meals. At the start, he’s just focused on getting Shiro confident with chopping, making sure he can follow the rhythm in his voice without so much as flinching as he handles all sorts of things small or slippery. Cleaning squid had been an event in itself, but Keith’d kept up a constant string of reassurances and praise and the thing had turned out grilled to perfection, so much so a shiver had gone up his spine when he took his first bite. He had no idea if these little lessons were improving Shiro’s cooking skills at home, but if his roommate was to be believed, he was still making the same old meals, with maybe a few more things sauteed in a pan. 

At Keith’s house though, he was entirely different. Twice a week, on their regular cooking hangouts (Keith refuses to call them dates, no matter how the image of kitchen disaster Takashi Shirogane cooking for him brings the image to mind) Shiro’s got a spring in his step as he enters the door, settling himself down behind the counter and waiting for Keith to tell him what to make. Keith can almost picture two big ears on top of his head, perked and eager for his first command, eyes wide and attentive as he stares across the four feet that separate them. 

Today, shrimp and veggies laid out, Shiro doesn’t even give the pot of oil on the stove a second glance like the first time they’d tried frying something. No, he settles right into place, apron tied around his waist, hands crossed on the counter ready to start. It reminds him so much of Kosmo in the moment, Keith does something stupid. 

He says as much. Shiro looks so cute and ready, it slips out before he can stop himself.

“Awww, are you ready puppy?”

Both him and Shiro freeze. It’s a slip of the tongue, something he shouldn’t have done, but they’ve already started and if there’s anything those message boards say (and Keith is loathe to admit he’s checking them more and more now) is that he shouldn’t break the immersion, not until they’re done. 

So against his better judgement, he doubles down. He lets his voice slip further into that tone he’s using more and more around Shiro, all velvet and smoke. “You going to be a good puppy and make me my favourite meal?”

There’s a flicker of confusion, and then any questioning is gone from Shiro’s face, replaced with his usual cheery demeanor. If anything, he perks up more at the pet name. “Yessir! Ready to start. Where do you want me to begin?”

The rest of the night goes without fault. Keith can’t quite believe it. He’d talked to Shiro like he talked to his dog, and the other man had barely batted an eye. Even now, slicing yam and pumpkin under Keith’s instructions, he doesn’t act any different. 

Keith licks his lips, thinking. 

“Shiro,” he says, and the pitcher’s eyes snap up to meet his own. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, but if he’s learned anything from these past weeks, is that Shiro needs a firm hand to stay in the zone. Any hesitancy on his part leads to hesitance in him. 

“Feed me a carrot.”

Their eye contact doesn’t waver, even as Shiro raises a carrot stick to Keith’s lips or he slips it between them. Inside he’s burning, dying over getting Shiro to do something so intimate for him, but there’s another part of him, the one in control right now, hungering for the reaction he can get. 

His teeth snap down on the flesh and Shiro flinches, eyes still locked on where the tip disappeared into his mouth. Keith sits back, chewing slowly, watching every last hair on Shiro’s head before swallowing. 

“Good puppy. You can treat yourself as well.”

And  _ fuck…  _ Shiro does it, bringing the other half of the carrot to his own lips and crunching it down. His ears are slightly pink, but otherwise, he gives no other sign that this was anything other than two friends spending the night together. Keith though… Keith’s trying not to freak out over the indirect kiss they just shared, trying not to let his control slip away and have Shiro’s trance break. 

So he just keeps going, slipping in the pet name here and there as he walks Shiro through the rest of the recipe. The more he uses it, the more  _ right _ it feels. Right now, Shiro really is like a puppy, eager to please, loyal to him. He’s tempted to see how he’d react to a hand stroking his hair, or fingers behind his ears, but he holds steady.  _ ‘Puppy’ _ is as far as it goes. 

He subtly tries to see if Shiro noticed the shift today, if the name made him uncomfortable, but Shiro’s his usual self, gushing over how good Keith’s recipes are and asking how much he likes them. Keith has to admit, Shiro’s nailed this one, and telling him that has the pitcher beaming from ear to ear. 

That night, Keith opens his laptop again, bottle of beer to calm his nerves as he navigates the message boards he’s been lurking for the better part of two months now, and hunts for the post he’s looking for. 

Calling Shiro that had awakened something in him, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to find out what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy... I blame you for cursing my dick and making me fall in love with the 'puppy' nickname for Shiro and all the rest of you get to grow attached to it too


	3. Chapter 3

Preseason comes and Shiro and Keith find themselves meeting in Keith’s kitchen less and less. With daily practices it’s now near impossible to meet more than once a week, their time relegated to whatever stolen afternoons they could find on the weekends before schoolwork and social obligations start getting in the way. At first Shiro thinks nothing of it. He and Keith had bonded over the summer, going back to their old routine wasn’t going to change things all that much. But as the weeks wear on, he finds himself growing more and more tired, body stiffer than its been in weeks, no matter how much he stretches or rolls himself out morning and night.

His performance on the diamond doesn’t waver. Really, if anything, it’s stronger than before. He’s more sure of himself, able to make split second choices with little more than a look and the flick of a finger from Keith. As silly as their cooking exercises had seemed, they worked. Whenever Shiro’s on the fence about something he looks to Keith and the catcher confirms everything he needs. But still, something’s missing. It’s not quite the same now.

He misses it, he realizes. There was something about cooking for Keith that, despite the usual stress it gives him alone in his own kitchen, relaxed him. The adrenaline of coming within millimeters of a sharp blade or a pot of burning oil mingled with Keith’s presence beside him. Something about that voice and those eyes, those deep, midnight-blue eyes that made all his worries disappear and keep him only in the there and now. The way his lashes would fan his face as he glanced down at the recipe book, and the breaking of his smile into a look of pure pleasure as he took his first bite of Shiro’s handiwork. That face was better than any praises or words Keith could give him, pure unguarded bliss whenever Shiro managed to surprise him. 

When he’s over at Keith’s now, he finds himself wanting to do more for him, seek his approval out even more. The first time he starts on dishes, usually Keith’s job, the catcher looks at him in shock, quickly jumping up to stop him. Shiro’s heart had sunk. He’d wanted to make Keith happy, do something extra for him to make up for their lost time together. It wasn’t until Keith asked him later, fingers combing spots of flour from his hair, that he managed to put it into words. 

“I just… wanted to do it,” he admits over spring rolls and thai noodles. “I like it when I make you happy cooking, I figured cleaning would do that too.”

“But you’re already cooking Shiro. That’s the agreement we have. You cook, I command. It’s the easiest way to replicate your performance anxiety off the pitch.”

He stabs at a hunk of tofu. “I know… I just thought…”

Keith’s hand slides down Shiro’s hair to his neck, holding there until he looks Keith back in the face. 

“I’m not upset or anything Shiro. It just… surprised me. I reacted with my gut. I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“You’re not!” His fork clatters onto the counter as he stands up. “You… you’ve already helped me so much Keith, and with us meeting less and less I guess I just want to show it more. If it bothers you I won’t do it again.”

He waits as Keith finishes chewing a mouthful of noodles, every second ticking on like the timer on a bomb clock. His face is thoughtful, distant, and Shiro desperately wants to know what’s going on in Keith’s head right now. 

After a tremendous swallow, Keith looks back at him, and Shiro’s relieved to see the crinkling of smile lines at the corners of his eyes. “Well, if it makes you happy, I don’t want to keep you from it. You’re really fine with doing all the dishes too?”

“Yes!”

Keith lets out a little huff that fluffs his bangs up. “And if I suddenly started asking you to wash the counters and take out the trash? You’re not telling me you’d let me put that on you too."

“Well yeah,” he blinks. “I would, if that’s what you wanted.”

Keith pauses, mouthful of noodles halfway to his mouth. “Of course,” he says, half to Shiro, half to himself. There’s a smile there, one that extends over his full face now, soft and tender. It has Shiro’s pulse racing faster. “I shouldn’t expect any less from a good boy like you.”

The praise hums through him, and for the rest of the night he can’t get that look or those words out of his head.

* * *

 

Shiro comes back from a grueling practice a few weeks later to Roy cornering him. He’d in the process of peeling off his socks and shirt, both sopping and muddy after a tumble on the marshy turf, balanced on one foot, when his roommate stands over him. 

“So…” Roy says, arms crossed as he stares down at Shiro in his vulnerable position, “I heard you’re actually learning to cook.”

It takes a second for Shiro to realize Roy isn’t chiding him for burning rice to the bottom of a pot yesterday night, and then another second for his brain to process it, during which his sock finally releases it’s clutches on his toes and flicks dirty water over Roy’s white slippers. They both stare at the marks for a second, before Roy rolls his eyes and crosses his ankles as well. 

“Your friend, the shrimpy little guy on your baseball team told me.”

“Matt?” Shiro blinks. Roy only has a passing knowledge of his teammates, and even then if Shiro ever has any over he just rolls his eyes and locks himself in his room. He hasn’t really told anyone about his cooking exploits with Keith either, save Matt, and that was just because he’d accidentally let it slip he’d made meringue when they were staring at a pie display in the caf. 

“No. The other short one. Black hair, kinda pouty…”

“Oh! Keith!” He can’t help but smile. “Yeah, he’s been helping me get more confident in the kitchen.”  _ Among other things _ . Today in practice he’d straight up zoned out for the better part of a half hour, just following Keith’s signals and piercing eyes as he corked out pitch after pitch. He hadn’t even heard the coach calling for him until Keith had looked away, breaking the spell. He’d been so… loose the entire time, keyed into Keith and the moment, waiting to see if he could trigger the same response he’d gotten from his last week when Keith’d straight up moaned over the chicken cutlets he’d made. Of course… not that he was wanting Keith to make those sounds at practice, but the lingering touch on his arm during cool down and the quirk of his lips as he’d smiled at him was almost as good. 

_ “Good boy” _ Keith had said, and his whole walk home those same words had been ringing through Shiro’d head. 

“Has he actually managed to get you to make something edible beyond frozen veggies and hot dogs? Cause if we’re being frank here Shiro you almost ruined a perfectly good pot this week.”

_ Ah _ . So he was upset over the rice. To be fair it wasn’t totally Shiro’s fault, he’d gotten lost down a click hole of cute cat videos and before he’d known it the smoke alarm was going off. 

Shiro sucks on his lip as he pulls a sweater over himself and makes his way deeper into their apartment. “I want to think so? Keith likes what I make at least, the pasta carbonara I cooked last weekend was good.”

Roy snorts. “I think I need to see it to believe it. You, managing that?”

As much as Shiro’s used to Roy’s teasing after all these years, he’s tired. He flicks his phone open to the album of food pictures Keith’s been encouraging him to take, and chucks it at his roommate. “There, take a look,” he says as he pulls a carton of chocolate milk out of the fridge and takes a swig. 

Roy makes a face at him drinking from the carton, but Shiro just shrugs and points at the phone. It’s his milk, he can drink it how he wants. He watches as Roy scrolls through the album, eyebrows disappearing further and further into his ridiculously gelled bangs. 

“You’re shitting me,” Roy hisses, waving a photo of pork chops and mashed potatoes in front of Shiro’s nose. “ _ This _ was made by  _ you? _ I don’t-” he starts, but already he’s swiped to the next photo in the list of Shiro cranking a food mill, grinding potatoes to flakes. “ _ Holy fuck… _ it  _ was _ you. But  _ how? _ ”

Shiro takes his phone back, swiping through the album until he gets to one of his favourites, from their first day of cooking, before he got better at all this. Of a casserole dish of his confit byaldi and Keith leaning in from the corner, gaze halfway between the food and the camera with a look of such soft pride it still makes Shiro stop and stare at it even now. He hadn’t captured a candid of him like that since. 

“Keith’s just a good teacher like that,” he shrugs, still looking at the photo. “He believes in me and I trust he knows what I can handle.”

“Shiro… there’s a fucking rack of lamb in there. You’re telling me you’ve been eating salad mix and grocery store sticky chicken all week and you made  _ that? _ ” Roy gestures at the pot on their counter, still soaking in a mix of water, soap, and baking soda trying to remove the last of the burnt rice remnants. “Dude, what the fuck?”

With a sigh Shiro puts his phone back in his pocket. “I don’t know what to tell you. Keith just makes me relaxed enough in the kitchen that I can handle all that. I like doing it with him, but when I’m just cooking for myself I just don’t feel like all that effort is worth it. ‘Sides, he’s the one with all the recipes, I just follow what he tells me.”

“Wait. So if I just give you a recipe for beef wellington you can make it? Or hell, if I just get all the ingredients and instructions we could be eating like kings here?” Roy’s already whipping out his phone, mumbling to himself as he does. “God… if I’d known the reason the one reason you didn’t fuck up KD was because it came with idiot proof instructions I would have started handing you recipes way sooner. Finally… I don’t have to be the one doing all the holiday cooking for us.”

Something makes itself known at the base of Shiro’s spine. It’s a prickle, a bramble caught there that makes him want to squirm as it slowly coils higher up his body. The idea of doing what he does with Keith with Roy, setting aside all that time with him instead, having him being the one ordering him around the kitchen, it feels wrong. Like everything in the world moved three inches to the right and Shiro’s the only thing staying back where he belongs, now out of place in that new world. He does it with Keith.  _ For Keith. _ He can’t picture it with Roy, can’t imagine himself over his own stove, having his roommate bark orders at him in his sarcastic tone instead of Keith’s rich velvety one. It shouldn’t be, but it is. The idea of cooking for someone else, working to please them in the same way he does with Keith somehow feels dishonest, like something’s amiss. 

He just can’t place his finger on why that is. 

“Hey. Shiro. Earth to Shiro.”

Shiro’s chin snaps up, not even realizing he’d been so lost in thought. “Sorry Roy…” he manages. 

“You were gone for a good second dude. So, what about it? What about you put some of your new cooking skills to the test and help us eat something fancier than the occasional takeout from Outback?”

“I… I don’t know,” he sighs, and it’s true. He doesn’t know, other than the fact that doing that without Keith feels wrong. “I think… I think there’s something about having Keith around that helps me relax enough to do it. I don’t think I can without him.”

“So? Invite him over. Make a meal we’ll never forget. Seriously, after all this time as roommates, I think you owe me a good meal after cleaning up all your messes.”

Despite the little flip Shiro’s stomach makes, he knows he doesn’t have enough excuses to shoot down the idea. 

“I’ll… I’ll try and ask him eventually.”

* * *

 

Three days later, and Keith finds himself hunched over his computer, questioning every decision in his life up until now. Yes, he’d liked Shiro at the start of this, and  _ by god _ he still did now, maybe even more. Before it had been distant admiration, then a hardcore friend crush, and now... well… he knew it was definitely more than that. Spending so much one on one time with Shiro he was starting to see a totally different side of the guy, one that wasn’t all leadership and peak performance. He got to hear Shiro’s concerns, his guilty hopes and dreams, his silly childhood stories and his odd vocal quirks (the fact Shiro managed to make a dead perfect anime “ehhhhh” whenever he dropped something in private was one of his favourites). 

Private Shiro was calmer, easily giving up command to anyone else who seemed like they could handle things. Keith’d realized part of the reason he was so involved on the team wasn’t fully selflessness, but also anxiety that things could fall to pieces without the right support. But give him someone else he trusted to do well? Shiro’d step down in a heartbeat to let them do so, happily falling in step. It was part of the reason he worked so well with the coaches, picking up in areas they lacked while staying in line for those they didn’t. 

Except that now that was even more pronounced with him now. To the point that today at practice Shiro’d looked to him after they’d finished a grueling marathon of lunges, he’d had the same expression he had standing across the counter in his own kitchen, looking for Keith’s opinion. And without thinking, he’d gone there. 

_ Good job puppy.  _ Even now, it makes Keith want to sink under his blankets and scream. He’d said it out loud, tugged the brim of Shiro’s cap and smiled, and in front of the entire team. Lance hadn’t let him hear the end of it. And worse… he was threatening to use the nickname too. 

Something dark and possessive had growled in his chest today as the first syllable had left Lance’s mouth, something that cut him off with a look so cutting he’d avoided him through cool down.  _ Puppy _ was  _ his _ nickname for Shiro, no one else’s. He could take Lance teasing him about finally trying to make a move, sloppy as it seemed. Heck, he didn’t even mind Hunk commenting on how Shiro seemed to be closer with him this season than last, but someone else using that name?  _ That… _ . Keith groans…  _ that pet name,  _ it bothers him more than he wants to admit. Because it’s for a part of Shiro that he thinks of as his, a side that he’s closest to, that few others get to see. 

And now, on the message boards, he’s staring back at his own post, his first ever, now lit up with more than a dozen replies and upvotes. 

_ I tried using some of the advice in this forum for trust exercises with a teammate and I think I’m in over my head now.  _

There’s a summary of his situation below, the barebones of it, that he’d been looking for ways to get Shiro to trust him on instinct for things that scare him and they’d landed on some household tasks that fit the bill. He goes a little into what techniques he’s tried for, the persona he ends up slipping into when they do this, Shiro’s efforts to do even more now when they’re in their practicing zone, and how his initial puppy slipup has turned into a thing between them. It rounds off with him summarizing the events of today, how Shiro’d looked to him outside of the two scenarios they’d set up, the accidental name drop and how it’d made him feel. 

He’d hoped they’d hone in to how he’s worried his crush is starting to accelerate now, even if he’s pretty sure Shiro’s happy being single and isn’t in the market for anything. Heck… maybe they could’ve even give some advice on how to keep them both from slipping up in public, Keith would have been down for that. 

Instead, they’re all focused on the single thing he’d hoped they  _ wouldn’t  _ focus on. 

_ Hate to admit it to you buddy, but you started applying D/S techniques with your friend, and it seems like you got exactly what you were asking for. Did you set your scenes more in fantasy or more in reality? Just wondering because sounds to me like your sub doesn’t quite know when you want to use these roles and when not to, but then again you said you were using them while you play sports, so you can’t blame him for acting like that if it’s what he expects. _

_ Just because it’s not sexual doesn’t mean you’re not his dom and he’s not your sub. I’ve been a non-sexual dom for some of my clients and a lot of the territory I tread into is close to life coach, so your situation might not be as different as you think. Feel free to message me if you want more advice on how to handle him, and if you’re looking at getting any equipment for yourselves I can give you a nice discount ;-) _

_ Dudeeee this can’t be real no dom just finds out their crush is a sub but hey if it is real I’m happy for you and hope you guys well!!! _

_ God finding a domestic sub like your dude is such a lucky break. You’d better treasure him man! Treat him well and he’ll work so damn hard to please you, sounds to me like yours fucking LOVES praise. I bet if you treat him right you could have him being the perfect housewife for you in no time flat (and hey, maybe that’s his kink) _

Keith moans, hand dragging down his face as he reaches for his soda and downs it in three gulps.  _ He wasn’t trying to be a dom, that was never the plan… how come these people didn’t get it?  _ He was tempted to take up the second poster’s offer… but then again, that meant admitting to himself and a stranger that was what they were and where he wanted to be heading and he definitely wasn’t interested in buying chains or harnesses. And, despite what his brain was picturing, he definitely wasn’t putting a collar on Shiro either.

No matter how cute the picture was in his head. Thin black leather with a little silver tag with his name etched in tiny delicate letters. Maybe even… on the back...

Keith slaps his cheeks, breaking himself out of it. He’s _absolutely_ ** _not_** tagging Shiro with his phone number, no matter what weird 2am fantasies he’s having right now. Instead he scrolls down, right to the very bottom of the thread to a reply with several sub-replies of it’s own. It was one he’d been staring at for the better part of a half hour now, fighting the rising feeling of caterpillars squirming in his stomach.

_ It sounds to me like you started this out with good intentions, but they’ve evolved into something you’re not sure if you or your partner want. Have you talked to him at all about this? From what I can gather you debrief after your sessions, even if it's not traditional aftercare. However, I can’t tell if he’s fully aware of the lifestyle you’ve both started to share in order to get the results you wanted. Have you ever been honest with him about where you got your ideas from? If you’re as clear with him as you were with us, I can’t see him being angry, especially since you seem to be so aware that maybe your feelings may have come into play somewhere along the line. Communication is a huge part of the D/S lifestyle, and withholding certain things from your partner could lead to problems down the road. We can give you all the advice we can, but at the end of the day what it all comes down to is the relationship between you and your sub and only you can work that out. _

Two extra caterpillars join the party as Keith scrolls further down the page. It’s go no fewer than 10 up votes now, with every single user replying with something along the lines of “yes, talk to him”. Even some of the ones who’ve posted up above were chiming in. The professional dom was pointing him towards several dom handbooks to read as well as a few sources on sub mentalities for him to go through. Housewife dude was straight up yelling at him to man up and take responsibility for what he’d started, and then there was one more, from another user, newly posted, that made the collection of caterpillars collectively squirm.

_ I’m not going to tell you how to run your relationship, but as a sub if my dom kept stringing me along never defining our relationship I’d end up leaving them. If you don’t tell him soon, you risk losing him forever, not just as a partner, but maybe even a friend. Good luck man, I hope you’re able to make it work out. _

And just below, barely 10 seconds old, a reply. 

_ Yikes. Yeah man. You need to tell him. Like…  _ **_now_ ** _. _

Keith slams the lid shut and tugs the covers up over his face.

He’s been dreading this for the better part of a month now. Being so close with Shiro all summer, only to come back to the new semester barely seeing him? It’s doing things to him. It’s making him act bolder, more impulsive whenever they slip into their roles. God… just last week Shiro’d eaten out of the palm of his hand as he’d been munching on wasabi peas while he watched Shiro prep fried rice. He’d just… wanted it, held his hand out, and before he knew it Shiro’s lips were tickling his palm as he delicately licked up the offering. He couldn’t forget the feeling of warm chapped skin against his own, or the brush of Shiro’s bangs as they slid over his wrist. It was enough that later, as Shiro had been painstakingly trying to cut carrots into little flower shapes he’d leaned over and brushed them back out of his face, hand lingering behind Shiro’s ear as he’d praised him for going the extra mile. And he’d stayed there as Shiro smiled back at him, eyes taking on a sheen regularly reserved for only the cutest of Kosmo’s puppy pictures. He’d wanted that moment to freeze, stand eternal, but it couldn’t. The pot of rice has started bubbling over and it had been broken, dissolving like a soap bubble in the air.

Keith gropes around for his stuffed hippo and squeezes it to his chest within the safe confines of his comforter.

He… he wants more with Shiro,  _ so much more _ . He wants to be Shiro’s, maybe more than he wants Shiro to be his. He wants to wake up to the sight of Shiro’s face beside him and the smell of coffee brewing in the pot. He wants to bring him to meet Kosmo and his mom, take him hiking through the trails in the ravine near their house and show him his favourite hidden view, the cliffside overlooking the reservoir, wants to turn around to find Shiro facing him… lean up and close the gap between them…

And then that scene fades out, replaced with another one. Of Shiro at the foot of this very bed, on his hands and knees, naked aside from the collar around his neck and staring up at Keith like he’s the only thing that matters in the world, waiting at attention for permission. Permission to move between Keith’s thighs… open those soft, waiting lips, and…

Keith’s nails dig into his arm.

_No… he wasn’t going there._ He couldn’t. Shiro was his friend. **_Friend._** Six letters, not nine, no B or O or Y to be seen. He shouldn’t be picturing that, no matter how his dick twitched in his sweats at the very thought of Shiro going down on him.

Deep down,  _ he knows _ . He knows he should talk to Shiro about this. He knows he should be honest with him about the truth and where his true feelings lie. How he’s had them, even before all this started and he became Shiro’s…. confidant (he refuses to use the word dom, no matter what the forum members say). How they’ve just gotten stronger, how he’s fallen even deeper for this man as he’s gotten to know him beyond the version of himself in the public eye. How much he wants to get him a kitten, regardless of the fact that  _ ‘my roommate is allergic’  _ and  _ ‘what would happen to them when I have to leave town for games?’ _ , as if Keith wouldn’t scour the entire campus for the best dang cat sitter for Shiro’s child. 

He knows he should come forward, be honest, but he can’t. Not yet. He can still do this, still cram his feelings so far down inside himself that he forgets about them and he and Shiro can just be best friends, nothing more. It’s a pipe dream, and he knows it, but right now, the idea of losing this bond with Shiro, this place they’re in right now, it terrifies him. Terrifies him for not just what it could do to him, but what it could do to Shiro. 

There’s a ping on his phone and Keith squirms his way over to his bedside table to check the notification. 

It’s from Shiro.

He sits bolt upright, phone clutched in his fingers as he stares at the message on screen. 

_ My roommate wants me to invite you over for dinner. Would you be interested? _

His fingers type out  _ ‘YES’ _ before he can stop himself, and before he knows it he’s staring at the little sent text bubble, heart hammering in his chest. He gets another reply in a matter of seconds. 

_ Don’t think this doesn’t mean I still don’t want to do our usual thing at your place this week! I’ll find the recipes and ingredients, but I don’t think I’ll be able to cook them without your help. Plz help me cook for you as a thanks for everything 人(•́ㅿ•̀)  _

Keith’s already agreeing to everything before even finishing Shiro’s text. They sort out the details over another few messages, and all too fast he’s sinking back into his bed, face hidden in his hands. 

Shiro invited him over. Shiro asked to meet outside of their usual time, and he wants to cook for him.  _ Him. Keith. _ As a thank you. It’s too much, his heart is hammering away in his chest like a bird about to escape its cage and fly free and he’s so giddy he has to fight to contain his smile. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to sober himself back up. 

Shiro was probably just doing this as a friend, nothing more. Sure, he cared about him, liked him platonically, but he was getting ahead of himself picturing a candlelit meal for the two of them, Shiro making all his favourites. His crush was still burning strong, and unless he managed to get in under control and soon, he needed to come clean.

_ Ten days _ , he tells himself.  _ If this keeps going on after ten days, I’ll tell him. _


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro’s standing in their small living room, too nervous to sit. 

He’d cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, going so far as to even dust the top of the fridge and scrape the last of the dried tomato sauce off the backsplash both he and Roy had been neglecting for weeks now. He’d completely reorganized the bathroom, put out clean towels and washed the bathmat, and had even cleaned up the mess of books and notes that took up their coffee table and tv stand. Roy’s room was about the one place he didn’t touch, even though his roommate had joked Shiro was more than welcome to vacuum it for him, but even Shiro had to admit that was going a step too far. 

He eyes his own room now, door closed, but unlike Roy’s it’s tidy, with his usual nest of blankets made properly. It’s not as if he’s hoping for anything, but if he and Keith wanted to hang out and talk tonight without Roy traipsing around, he wants the option. 

Shiro chews his lip, surveying the apartment. It felt like he was forgetting something. The place is clean, he’s bought all the ingredients he needs for tonight, even washing and prepping the few things he feels safe doing before Keith’s arrival. He doesn’t know why, but there’s that same sense of pre-game jitters now as he has before a big match. After all, it’s just Keith… right? He’d been over at his place dozens of times and it’s been fine, no nerves anywhere. And even if Keith’s small apartment is spartan in decoration and well kept, he doesn’t keep it to this standard of cleanliness Shiro’s made theirs out to be. Heck, as he looks it over more now, he worries he’s over cleaned, making it look more like an Ikea catalogue than an actual home. 

He musses up the blanket on the couch, then folds it again. Instead he pulls a few books off the shelf and plop them here or there. Messes up the blanket again, and with a huff he decides to leave it. Keith isn’t expecting perfection, but he also isn’t expecting a pigsty. 

Shiro checks the clock again, still five minutes to five, before Keith should even be showing up. He decides to prep a drink to calm his nerves and shuffles into the kitchen. 

He whips up a rye and ginger in no time, taking two sips as he stares into the depths of the fridge. It’s absolutely full of food that he and Roy never regularly have in there. Gone are the usual bags of pre prepped veggies and precooked meat. He’s got goat cheese and fresh strawberries and arugula and green tomatoes, not to mention three types of mushrooms and a flat of steaks. There’s more butter than had ever been in their fridge before, and a pot of pre-boiled potatoes on the bottom shelf. 

He’d ended up approaching Hunk, solid second baseman and one of Keith’s closer friends from what he could tell, for help. The man’s eyes had lit up when Shiro had asked him if he knew any of Keith’s favourite foods, rattling off a list so fast Shiro’d needed to ask him to slow down to let him take notes. As much as Keith always pushed him to make fancier and fancier foods, it turned out he liked simple home recipes best, southern comforts that reminded him of his parents and home. Shiro’s decided to go a step beyond biscuits and chili though, and as he eyes the pages of printouts he’s collected for tonight, hopes he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. As much as he’s worried about overcooking the steaks or smoking out the apartment frying tomatoes, it’s dessert that has him the most on edge, trying to follow a recipe for caramel apple pie Hunk had managed to get him from Keith’s own mom. 

“I got to try a bit last year when he brought it back from Thanksgiving. Absolutely amazing,” he’d said, handing the sticky recipe card to Shiro. “Still haven’t gotten it quite like hers, but this is the closest I’ve been so far.”

Shiro’s already tried making the caramel sauce once, and the tar created from last night’s attempt was already safely buried at the bottom of the garbage can. Hopefully, with Keith around and his new stove top thermometer, he can get it right tonight. 

There’s a buzz from the entryway and Shiro nearly drops his glass. Two to five. Keith’s early. He takes two more sips and makes his way to the intercom, gulping down a third as he presses the button. 

“Hello? That you Keith?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Let me in?”

Shiro buzzes him up and waits by the door, listening for soft footfalls on the hall carpet. It takes an eternity, but finally there’s a knock at his door and Keith is there, bottle of wine in one hand and phone held out in the other. On it is a photo of the one thing he’d forgotten this whole time. 

“Shirogane Fucker?” Keith’s eyebrows are quirked under his bangs, and even with the telltale amusement in his voice Shiro can’t help but pick up on something else there. “Please tell me how the heck you got that as your listing in the index.”

He feels the back of his neck flush as he guides Keith inside. “Uh, yeah… about that… Shoes off by the way. Well… Roy’s last name is Focker, and since my name is first on the lease, that’s how they entered it in.”

“I get that, but that still doesn’t explain the ‘U’ in there.”

Shiro groans, remembering the pack of white modeling clay he’s had in his room for months he’s been meaning to use. “There’s a kid the floor down from us who finds it funny. The landlord’s replaced the O at least six times and the kid either keeps snapping the tops off them or colouring them in with black. After a while everyone in the building’s just decided to let him have it instead of constantly trying to fix it. Even locking off the box doesn’t help, apparently he can pick locks.”

Keith gives him one more look as he pulls off his sneakers, but his face breaks into a smile as he stands back up. “Shirogane Fucker,” he snorts, and Shiro can’t help but notice how his nose crinkles when he does. “Well, the kid’s a master of false advertising. Isn’t Roy straight as a post?”

“Yeah he is. He hates it, but we haven’t been able to catch the little troublemaker so there’s not much he can do about it . He’s tried some BSing with girls though, telling them it means he’s silver ranked in lovemaking.”

Keith’s eyes go wide. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. He says some pretty stupid things when drunk.” Keith follows him into the kitchen and Shiro pulls out another glass. “I think my favourite’s been ‘no bromo man, but you have the weirdest taste in socks. Your toes though, you should wear them more’.”

“Sounds like the perfect catch,” Keith grins. “And to be fair, he’s kinda right about your socks. I swear, half the times you’ve been over you’ve worn two different ones.”

“Because it’s been laundry day and I’ve run out of pairs!”

Keith scoops the half made drink from Shiro’s hands and adds another slosh of whiskey to it. “Uh huh. So when it happens on a wednesday and then the following saturday, both of them have been laundry day?”

Shiro’s cheeks darken as he puffs them up in offense. “S’not like you don’t wear socks from different sets. I’ve seen you wearing two different pairs at practice.”

“The difference is they’re both white sports socks Shiro. You wear black cat socks and blue cloud ones together. Not to mention all your weird food themed ones.” He glances down at the two ramen socks currently decorating Shiro’s feet. “How many do you have exactly?”

“... enough,” he says, burying his face in the fridge and digging out ingredients to start cooking. “I just like them, and it’s hard to justify throwing them out when one gets lost or ripped.”

Keith worms his way in beside Shiro, rooting around beside him for something. “I’m not shaming you Shiro,” he chuckles, “I think it’s cute. You’ve got a full zodiac of socks and then some. The little sheep are probably my favourites you have.”

And fuck if Shiro has to bury his face in the crisper to hide the way his whole face turns red at that. Keith seems to find what he’s looking for and stands back up. 

“Y’okay? Finding everything okay?”

“Yeah… yeah I’m good,” Shiro grunts, pulling out a bag of green beans and a handful of chives. “Just… thinking about everything I need to cook tonight.”

Keith eyes the papers spread out all over the counter, recipes for no less than 5 dishes. “Just how much are you planning on making?”

“Not much.”

“Shiro, there’s like six recipes here.” Keith waves the one for garlic mash in front of him. “Are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew?”

He stands there for a second, pot of potatoes in his arms. He’d been worried earlier, but now? “I’ll be fine so long as you’re here to help guide,” he says. And he means it. It’s like all the stress from earlier in the day is trickling away, Keith’s presence bringing him back down to Earth. Even with the finicky things he has planned for tonight, there’s no way he can mess up, not with Keith at his side. 

“Oh.” It’s all Keith says, the catcher quickly looking away and taking a sip of his drink. Shiro’s not sure, but he could swear Keith’s ears are pinker under the cover of his hair. “Then… then I’ll do my best.”

Shiro smiles as Keith takes a seat on the counter and picks up another recipe, still nursing his drink. 

“Me too.”

* * *

 

They’re rounding home plate now, Shiro having finished most of the work needed before he can start cooking the steaks. The potatoes were loaded up with more butter and garlic cream cheese than could be humanly healthy, the mushroom gravy was simmering away on the stove, making the two of them drool, and the salad was assembled, dressing in the fridge, ready to be tossed. Tomato slices were sliced and salted and now drying on a spare spread of countertop, which left Keith and Shiro together, pouring over Hunk’s recipe card covered in minute writing. 

“I honestly cannot believe he did this.” Keith’s got the card in one hand and his third scotch and soda in the other. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but not as much as Shiro’s glowing with his own two drinks. “I can’t believe he tried to figure out mom’s recipe, just after that one slice. Or that you managed to get it from him. Hunk guards his recipes like they’re the coca-cola formula or something.”

“Well, if they’re all like his brownie recipe, can you blame him?” 

“No, I guess you’re right,” he sighs. “ _ Shiro!  _ Slow down your stirring, you’re going to make it break!”

Shiro’s arm jerks in the process of stirring the piping batch of caramel sauce on the stove. Ever since he’s started this one, Keith’s been even more attentive, watching over his shoulder like a hawk. It makes his spine prickle, in a good way. 

“Right. Sorry Keith.”

“Just pay a bit more attention.” Keith studies him over the rim of his glass as Shiro adjusts his pace. “Good, that’s the right speed. Move in figure eights, it’ll help it develop properly.”

Shiro lets himself relax, the swirling of the sauce and the sound of Keith’s voice describing his mom’s cooking the only things present. There’s commands in there, but they’re mixed in with a fond nostalgia, words Keith’s mother has passed down to him, and now him to Shiro. 

“You’re almost at the right temperature and colour. Keep going. And when it hits 350 you’re going to turn off the stove.”

He nods, letting Keith feed him a strawberry from the salad bowl and keeps going. It’s creeping up closer. 345. 346. Just a little bit more. 

“Did your mom make this a lot when you were growing up?”

Keith sucks on a strawberry of his own. “Mmmm, not a lot, but she’d make it for special occasions. Like my birthday, or the day I got accepted into college. She always said good moments can be made sweeter with good things, and this was her way of doing it.” He smiles, staring out into space. “The day she brought Kosmo home she made it. She distracted me with a slice, then let him come up behind me while I was eating. I’ll never forget it.”

348\. Shiro looks back up at Keith and the softness on his face. He wants to make that happen, wants to make tonight feel like that for Keith. Nowadays he struggles to think of a time when they weren’t close like this. It felt right, like it was meant to be. 

349\. Shiro turns back to the caramel, ready to move the second it hits 350. 

He wants Keith to make that face again, that face of pure unadulterated bliss he’s been craving since the first time he’d managed to make it so. Something coils in his belly as the thermometer strikes 350. 

God. He wants it. 

He follows every direction of Keith’s after that to a T, whisking cream and vanilla into the caramel, adding the slightest touch of cinnamon at the last minute and a two finger pinch of salt. He watches with baited breath as Keith asks for a tasting, brushing his hair behind his ear as he bends down to reach the spoon. God… Shiro’s seen Keith dozens of times before, but even now he can’t deny how effortlessly beautiful he can be in moments like this, dark hairs standing out against the pale skin of his jaw, eyes half lidded as his lips close around the teaspoon. 

The hum that leaves him as he sits back up sends Shiro’s body thrumming into overdrive. It’s like a massive cat purring, licking its lips as it smiles down at him from its perch with abyss deep eyes. 

“Delicious,” he croons, and Shiro’s mouth is dry in an instant. He needs to swivel away, gulp down the rest of his drink and a chunk of ice, before he feels ready to face him again. “Almost as good as mom’s. You ready for the apples?”

Shiro bobs his head and starts fishing out granny smiths from their bag. 

He’s almost done peeling and coring them all when the sound of a lock in the door snaps him out of the cadence of Keith’s voice. 

“Holy crap, it smells good in here! Shiro, what the heck?”

Both his and Keith’s heads whip around to watch his roommate appear in the hallway, backpack slung over his shoulder and hair wet with the start of rain. Distracted with Roy shucking off his coat, Shiro doesn’t notice how Keith’s fingers tighten on his glass. It’s chucked onto one of the coat pegs, backpack discarded onto one end of the sofa. Despite the sudden arrival, Shiro can’t help but snort at the incredulous look on Roy’s face. 

“Well, I told you Keith’s a good teacher.”

“Good’s an understatement.” He steps into the crowded kitchen, staring at all the food laying out. “Seriously man, how the fuck are you getting Takashi Shirogane to cook like this? Are these potatoes? Oh my god,” he drags a finger through and takes a taste, “ _ fuck _ , these are better than my mom’s. Dang Shiro, when I asked you to cook for me, I didn’t think you’d turn it out like this.”

“For you?” Keith looks up from his recipe card beside Shiro, forehead tight. 

“Well, yeah,” Roy shrugs. “After all the times I’ve fed him when he’s been too busy with game prep or exams I figured it was about time he paid me back, especially considering that you’ve made it so that his specialty’s now more than microwaved grilled cheese.”

Keith frowns, just as Roy spots the tomatoes and breading station. 

“What’s this?”

“Green tomatoes,” Shiro says, still trying to remain focused on peeling the last apple. Holding the knife steady is harder now. “For frying. They’re Keith’s favourites.”

“Instead of hot wings? Or jalapeno poppers?” Roy snorts, making his way over to the fridge. “You’ve got weird tastes little dude.”

The knife slips and a piece of peel falls onto Shiro’s wrist. 

“Well, if you don’t like them you can leave them for him. I didn’t get chicken wings and I don’t think the other veggies will bread up well.”

“Aww, Shiro,” Roy gasps with mock hurt. “How could you keep me from my goal of clogging every last artery in my body with tabasco?” He cracks open a beer and settles against the corner opposite to Shiro and Keith. “I’m kidding,” he adds, and Shiro finally notices that Keith’s looking at him with a slight pout. “I know you’re the guest tonight. Shiro’s not about to make you eat all the weird-ass shit I like.”

“Like peanut butter on cheese.”

“ _ No. _ ” Keith’s eyes bug out as he looks between the two of them. “You  _ don’t. _ What the heck man, that sounds nasty.”

“Well, ask Shiro, I’ve made it for him before when he’s been up at 1 am complaining he’s dying of hunger studying.”

It’s Shiro’s turn to be oogled at by Keith. He winces sheepishly and starts slicing apples in half. “It’s not the worst thing in the world. Not great, but not awful.” The apple slips out of his grip and he slices a wedge off the side. 

Keith leans forwards, picking up the slice and placing it to the side. “Careful Shiro.Take your time.” A hand rests just in the periphery of Shiro’s arm, close enough for him to feel an edge of warmth. 

Roy starts talking about noisy first years in the library and the hot girl he ran into while getting coffee. Shiro, never one to ignore someone, hums and chimes in where needed, asking the usual questions like “did you even ask her out” and “should I expect you to be bringing her over”. He can feel Keith’s gaze on his neck as he starts slicing the apple halves into slivers. He knows he’s being edged out of this conversation, not used to the types of conversations he and his roommate have, but with any luck Roy will retreat back to his room in a matter of minutes to boot up his laptop and play a round or two of battle royal before coming back out to swipe a plate of food. It was one of the better parts of him. He’d be social to a point, then disappear unless Shiro called him. 

Today though, it seems like he’s chattier than usual, now going on about the essay he was working on. The next time he chances a glance up from the cutting board, there’s the start of a frown on Keith’s lips. 

Roy reaches around him and picks up a sliver of fruit, making Shiro nearly slice off his knuckle. “Why are you slicing those apples that thin anyway Shiro? Whether you’re making crumble or pie, everyone knows that chunks is where it’s at.”

“Really?” Shiro eyes Keith again, but the boy says nothing, still looking at Roy with an unplaceable look. In response, he starts cutting thicker wedges, seeing how they look. 

“ _ No. _ ” Keith’s voice cuts through Shiro like steel as his blade  _ shunks _ into the cutting board. “You’re making my recipe, and my recipe calls for thin slices.” When he looks up, there’s that hardness in Keith’s eyes, the same unwavering strength he’s come to take as law both on the diamond and here, among pots and pans.

Shiro goes back to dicing wafers. 

“Oh come on! Don’t tell me you like your pie to basically be applesauce wrapped in crust.” Roy’s beer sloshes as he leans against the counter to Shiro’s other side. 

“It’s my mom’s recipe, and its best the way  _ she _ makes it,” Keith says. “Faster Shiro, you’ve still got a lot more to get through.”

“I’m just saying, I’ve had some pretty good pies in my lifetime and I can tell you that teeny apples slices weren’t a part of any of them.”

“Well, I guess you’re tasting an even better one tonight, and it’s going to be the one Shiro makes. Isn’t that right Shiro? You’re going to make it perfectly, aren’t you?”

Shiro’s adam's apple bobs as he slides the next half in place. “Yeah, of course. I’m going to make it just how you like it.”

“ _ Good _ ,” Keith simpers, and Shiro can taste the second word lingering on Keith’s tongue like a promise, an extra reward just out of reach. “Keep going like that and you’ll make me one happy camper.”

He picks up his pace as he starts on the next one. He can hear Roy shuffling around in the fridge now, looking for snacks, but his attention is forwards, focused on the task at hand. There’s a pile of apples forming at the corner of his cutting board now, slowly working their way up to the same size as the baking dish by his elbow. 

“Almost there,” Keith coaxes, honey now slipping into his voice. “You’re doing so good Shiro, you’ve gotten so good with your hands. I bet you could do this with your eyes closed now, look how far you’ve come.”

Shiro hums and keeps working, praise thrumming through him. Keith’s right, he’s come so far under Keith’s teachings, learning his way around a knife just as well as him. He finishes the next half off with a flourish, every nerve in his body tuned to the little puff of approval Keith lets out as he pushes them to the side and starts another. 

“Hey Shiro. Can you tell me what this is? Is it safe to eat or is it another of Keith’s weird food tastes?” Roy’s shaking something to his right, that, by the sounds of it is half liquid and half soggy cereal. His focus wanders off his board, towards the source, until something grabs his left wrist. 

He’s jerked back to look at Keith to his left, midnight eyes flashing dangerously. 

“Eyes on me Shiro,” he whispers, and the way those words form around his tongue and lips has Shiro unable to break his stare. His pupils dominate the cosmos that are his irises, sparks of something sharp and piercing coming their centers, tethering him in place. He’s trapped, captivated in them, unable to look away even if he wanted to. 

“You’re finishing what you started. Now,  _ slice _ .”

Shiro swallows hard. His grip on the knife handles tightens. 

He brings it down blindly, the crunch of apple flesh the only clue that he’s hitting home. Keith’s lips curl inwards into a smile, and Shiro feels his insides curl in turn as well. 

“Good. Keep going. You’re not stopping there, are you?”

Fuck. It’s terrifying, but fuck if it wasn’t hot as hell too. Shiro lifts the heel of the blade and steps it over several millimeters. He can feel more heat rise in his belly as it crunches down again. Keith’s eyebrows quirk up, and on the next step he moves over less, this time rewarding himself with a little purr of approval from Keith. 

“That’s it. Just like that.”

Everything else in the world’s faded out from existence. He knows Roy is still in the kitchen with them, can still hear the whine of the fridge’s motor as it kicks in, but it’s all background, noise that falls away. All that exists in his world is him and the knife and Keith, in a dance so precise one wrong move could spell disaster. 

Shiro’s arm speeds up.

Keith’s still talking to him now, in that voice that Shiro’s ready to drown in as much as his eyes, deep throaty sounds of encouragement as he works blindly to Keith’s satisfaction. If he wants him to prep the rest of the dinner tonight like this he will, blind and at Keith’s mercy as he works to please him. It’s all that matters right now, Keith’s pleasure, his voice in Shiro’s ears, swallowing him from outside in. He needs it, needs Keith’s final sign of approval, that one word that he’s come to crave with everything he does for him. 

His left hand slides off onto nothing, and with one last  _ shunk _ his knife passes through the final expanse of apple flesh. 

_ “Good puppy, _ ” Keith breathes, and Shiro’s entire existence is on fire as he sets the knife down, desperate to see his fruits of his labour but unwilling to look away should it displease Keith. Only when Keith averts his own gaze, looks down at the board himself, does Shiro allow himself to do so. 

Twelve perfect slivers of apple sit before him, crisp and white against the earthy brown. Shiro feels so hot, pumped full of endorphins like he’s just run a mile, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. The thrill of what he’d just done was still washing over him, so much so that it wasn’t until he leans forwards and bumps up against the edge of the counter that he realizes it. 

He’s hard. 

He’s hard from slicing apples under Keith’s attentions. And Roy is standing there, holding a carton of week-expired milk and starting at them both like he’d just witnessed a car crash. 

“I’m… I’m just gonna go throw this out.” And without another word Roy’s gone, the front door creaking shut as he leaves. 

“I… I need to run to the washroom!” Before he can even look to see Keith’s response, he’s dashing across the room and slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. 

Pressed against it, Shiro’s heart hammers in his chest, firing a million times a minute and speeding up, even as his dick throbs treacherously in his pants and blood begins to pool in his cheeks as well. He needs to calm down, to make this go away, but as he sinks down the door, all he can think about is Keith’s face, and the feeling he’d just felt, completely held at his mercy. 

Friends were not supposed to get hard over their friends. And they definitely weren’t supposed to get hard while cooking each other’s favourite meal. And most definitely, absolutely, was he not supposed to want to feel that way again, to hear those same words coming from Keith’s lips, in the cover of darkness in an entirely different room. 

Shiro holds his head in his hands and wills himself to shake the thought of it from his mind, even as his dick keeps reminding him it’s the fastest way to get rid of the problem he’s suddenly faced with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look... you know deep down Keith's into knife play and even deeper so is Shiro ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro has a praise kink, what can I say?
> 
> LET THE MUTUAL PINING BEGIN

It takes the better part of ten minutes for Shiro to get himself back to a place of control, thinking of literally every disgusting thing he can think of trying to get rid of the problem in his pants. He refuses to touch himself, even over the cover of fabric. It’s wrong. So so wrong, and Keith’s literally on the other side of the door, knocking softly and asking if he’s okay. 

In the end it’s the combination of his disgusting attempt at a tuna-banana casserole and the time Matt threw up all over his lap that gets him to the point of opening the door at last. 

The rest of the evening passes by fine. Other than Keith asking him if his stomachs’ okay, the whole apple situation is forgotten, traded for conversations about classes and practice and old favourite Pokemon. Roy even lets them have the common areas, just popping in and out of the kitchen for a plate, then coming back later for seconds. He and Keith wind up finishing the last of their wine watching clips from old cartoons and anime, roasting each other on their tastes. He can’t say he’s entirely surprised Keith liked Shadow the Hedgehog, but he can say he never saw Keith loving Magical Do-Re-Mi either. To be fair though, Keith teasing him over his tween crush from Ouran Host Club is extremely well-deserved. It goes on for a full ten minutes, right up until Shiro slides a piece of pie in front of him and Keith takes his first bite. 

And fuck, the face Keith makes as the fork slides from between his lips, the way his eyes roll back as he chews, it’s going to be tattooed on the insides of Shiro’s eyelids for days. Heck, months?  _ Years? _ It’s like a climax to everything, the peak of everything he’s ever made for Keith, always coming close, edging near this, but never, _ never _ eliciting this reaction until now. 

Keith straight up moans his name as he digs in for a second bite, and right about now Shiro’s feeling the stirrings of that same problem from earlier. He barely even takes three bites from his own plate, so completely focused on Keith that when the other’s plate is scraped clean and he’s eying Shiro’s, he hands it over without a word. 

“You don’t like it?” Keith stops with his fork hovering over Shiro’s piece. 

“No…”  _ God, no, he loves it. He loves everything about this.  _ Shiro licks his lips, traces of caramel and cinnamon still stuck to them.  _ God… Keith’s lips must taste like this too right now _ . The thought of it floods even more heat through him. “I… I’m just full right now,” he stammers. “It’s all yours.”

And in a way he is. He watches Keith eat the rest of his pie with a dopey smile on his face, melting a little bit more every time Keith makes another noise of pure bliss. And when they say goodnight, Keith’s Uber already downstairs and waiting for him, he presses the rest of the pie into Keith’s arms and tells him to take it. It’s worth all the time and effort spent preparing for tonight, all the fretting and second guessing to see his face light up for a second time in disbelief and the soft smile he leaves with, cradling it to his chest like something precious. 

But when he closes his front door, makes his way back into the bowels of his apartment and into his room, reality comes smacking back into him full force with the everything of tonight. 

He collapses onto his bed fully dressed, groping around until he finds a pillow to suffocate himself with and scream. 

_ Fuck. _

He’d gotten hard because of Keith. He’d nearly gotten hard a second time because of him too, thanks to whatever spirit had possessed him to make him create an orgasmic pie for one of him. He’d thought about the taste of Keith’s lips and stealing a morsel right off the tip of his fork, ready for what would come from it. And somewhere in it all, through the craziness that had been tonight, he’d stumbled over the nail he’d been wandering blindly around for months. 

_ He likes Keith.  _

He likes Keith way more than just a friend, and tonight the pieces had finally all come together and smacked him over the head because  _ of course he does, it’s so obvious _ . He likes his eyes, his smile, the way his shoulders bounce when he laughs. He likes his single-minded focus when he decides on a task at hand, likes the way his hands move effortlessly as he does things that make Shiro’s eyebrows disappear behind his fringe. He likes his soft side, his private love of stuffed toys and frosting from the can, likes how the faint scar on his chin shines silver-white when the light is just so... He even likes the cold side of Keith, light gone from his eyes, pupils flashing dangerously when something angers him.

And he likes when all that is turned on him, willing him to tuck tail between his legs and submit. 

From between his hips and his mattress, Shiro feels his dick throb anew. 

_ Fuck… why did he like that steel in Keith’s eyes, that deep, effortlessly powerful voice that made his mind go foggy and ready to do whatever Keith wanted? It… it wasn’t normal, was it? _

Normal people weren’t supposed to like being looked at like that, or like being ordered to test their limits like that. There had to be something wrong with him, something that made him find all that so  _ freaking _ hot that the thought of Keith subjecting him to something like tonight again was making him go to full mast faster than any grindr date ever had. 

_ Right? _

Shiro does what he always does whenever thoughts like this take over his brain, popping up and down like a game of whack-a-mole so fast it’s impossible to focus on anything else. He pulls out his phone and launches into a Goolge deep dive, letting thoughts tumble out directly into the search bar like consciousness vomit until it finally feels like its’ out of him.

This time though, it doesn’t feel like the steady thrum of  _ Keith _ and  _ weird _ and  _ like _ is dying down. If anything it’s speeding up as he swipes through search result after search result. With every hit, every click, his eyes grow wider and wider. He  _ can’t _ be, but with every new page he visits, every new article he skims, something inside him speaks a bit louder, until soon he’s on pages he’d never think to ever find himself on in his life, body buzzing and alive with every new word he drinks in. 

* * *

Four days. 

He had four days to get his feelings under control, or really… if he was being honest with himself... four days to muster up the courage to confess to Shiro. Ever since that dinner he knows he’s screwed, that there’s no way he can dig himself out of this Shiro-loving hole he’s dug himself into that’s now halfway to China. He’s got to man up and do it, before Shiro starts suspecting more than he probably already does.

Keith stares into the depths of his locker at his gym bag, into the galaxy of old socks and spare jerseys that litter the floor of it. He knew he’d messed up that night, but  _ goddammit,  _ Shiro’s roommate getting between them? Trying to slip himself into Keith’s place? It’d bothered him more than he likes]d to admit, and in the moment Roy trying to steal Shiro’s focus away had made something in Keith snap.

To… borrow a term from those message boards… he’d gone full dom. 

And even if Shiro’d played along…  __ and  _ fuck…  _  he had, staring at him with his eyes wide and lips parted just so, it had spooked him. How else could he explain Shiro locking himself in the bathroom? But of course, Shiro was too nice for his own good, which meant that he’d come back out and pretended that nothing had happened for the rest of the night, and Keith’d just followed right along, hoping with every shred of his existence that it’d just be a funny story that would fade to the back of Shiro’s memory. 

Still — Keith grabs his mitt off the shelf — it was bound to be plenty fresh when he has to man up this weekend and tell him the reality of it all. 

“Why the hell did I have to tell you…” he groans aloud.

“Because,” Hunk says, lacing up his shoes on the bench to his right, “you love me and want to share every part of your platonic life with me. And because deep down you know that you  _ want _ to do this, but you’ll never have the guts unless you give yourself an ultimatum. So here-” he slaps his chest and grins, “is your big, cuddly, totally going to be there for you no matter what happens, ultimatum.”

Keith has to admit, it’s hard not to smile at that kind of support. He  _ needs  _ it.

“Yeah, well, be prepared for the worst come Saturday. Like… have Goldie and two pints of mint chocolate ready to go.”

“What makes you think I don’t already?” Hunk gives him a wink and starts on rolling up his socks. “I’ve got cat beans and comfort food with your name on it. But seriously, I think you’re freaking yourself out over nothing. He had you over for dinner last week.  _ Heck _ , he asked me what to make for you too. Keith, Shiro likes you, and in the very least he’s going to give you the nicest turning down the human race’s ever seen.”

“We’ll see about that,” he groans. Confessing feelings was one thing, admitting to the fact that all this time he’d been using kinky sex psychology to try and get Shiro out of his head was something else entirely. Combine the two and… well… he doesn’t exactly have Vegas odds in his favour. 

“Oh come on, dinner couldn’t have been that bad.”

Keith chews his tongue. If he was being honest, it hadn’t been  _ that _ bad… the actual meal was great, Shiro’d made everything how he liked it, right down to the temperature of his steak. They’d spent the better part of two hours laughing and talking about family and dumb childhood stories (Shiro’d believed in Santa until he was nearly 14, all thanks to his brother). Even Roy’d stayed out of the way, though every time he’d wandered back into the kitchen for more potatoes Keith couldn’t miss the way he stared at him out of the corners of his eye. 

It’d just been him and his stupid feelings making things awkward. 

“There were a few little things,” he sighs, “and I don’t want to get into them now.” Hunk sits back on the bench, mouth closing. Keith continues. “Like… I know he likes me just fine now, but not  _ like like _ … just like… like. And I don’t think me telling him I  _ like like  _ him is the main issue, more like the combination of  _ like liking  _ and something else that has me all… I don’t know…”

“Like… nervous?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

One of Hunk’s large hands clap onto Keith’s shoulder, warmth and the faint smell of fresh bread radiating from it. “You know that you’re all wound up in your head thinking about this, right? The Keith I know, the Keith Shiro knows too, he’s great and anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks buddy,” he sighs, letting the other man squeeze him into one of his world famous hugs, perfect blend of soft and firm that fights off all worries Keith has whenever he’s suspended in one. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Awww, we having a big love in?” Something all elbows and chin crashes into Keith’s back, worming its way as deep into the hug as it could.

“Get off Lance,” Keith groans, but there isn’t the edge there that threatens a well placed jab to the gut. “Moment’s passed, thanks to you.”

“Something happen? The puppy all okay?”

“Kosmo’s fine, that box of chocolates he got into last week was-”

Lance pulls back with a roll of his eyes, hand on his hip. “Not  _ that _ puppy…”

Keith whirls around, trying to drill bloody murder into Lance through just a look alone before Hunk can- 

“Wh-what puppy? Keith, did your mom get another dog? Wait, did  _ you _ get one? Are you hiding a dog in your apartment and not telling me?” He’s steadily leaning in closer towards Keith, eyes getting brighter and brighter with every question. “Why’s it such a secret? Why does Lance look like that? Why can’t I m-” 

Hunk’s eyes go wide. “Oh.  _ Ohhhhh.” _

Keith glances back at Lance, eyebrows wiggling with same chaotic energy as two caterpillars at a rave. “You little…” he starts, but Lance is already weaving away preemptively from Keith as he looks for something soft (but not too soft) to whip at that little shit-eating grin on his face.

“Keith…” Hunk says, voice soft, “do… do you and Shiro have nicknames for each other?”

Even if Lance didn’t chime in, Keith knows Hunk can tell the truth from the colour of his cheeks. He’s on the verge of cackling now, dancing just out of Keith’s reach as he whips his hat at him trying to get him to  _ shut the hell up! _

“I don’t know what Shiro calls him, but I know for a  _ fact _ that’s what Keith calls Shiro,” he says, dodging the brim. “You should have seen him at practice when he accidentally did it Hunk, he looked almost as red as he does right now.”

Hunk full out oogles him as Keith slides down the door of his locker onto the floor.  _ He’s going to die… he’s ready to die… Lance knowing this was one thing, but now that  _ **_both_ ** _ of them knew that the other knew he’s outright doomed. _

Face covered in his hands, he can still hear the other two talking.  _ This is not happening _ . He’s one wrong person, one second away from Shiro or one of their other closer teammates to him walking in on them and his whole stupid secret is out there.

“I think it’s really cute. Now that you mention it, sometimes it really is kind of puppy-like, like he’s just happy to be beside Keith. He seems looser this season too, like he’s not all business and practices.”

“I’m telling you, there’s something there, Keith’s rubbing off on him somehow.”

“You know Keith’s planning to talk to him, right? That he’s going to do it before the week’s up.”

“Hunk…” Keith moans, but already it’s too late. Lance jumps on on the tidbit like it’s carbs slathered in garlic butter and salt.

“Oh my god… you think it’ll happen before the potlatch this weekend? You think they’ll be making out there when Keith gets six drinks sloppy?”

“ _ I’m  _ **_right here!_ ** **”** Keith hisses from between his teeth, glaring up at them both from between his fingers. “And I’m not doing it before the party. If I fuck it up and Shiro doesn’t take it well it’s going to ruin the night for everyone. He’ll be all off and the rest of the team will notice and the whole night’ll be a wash. Sides…” he sighs, not even sure why he’s bothering to give them more ammo, “I have to help Shiro cook for it.”

Both Hunk and Lance break out into chipmunk level smiles. 

“I smell wedding bells,” Lance teases. “You’ve totally got to do it then, it’s perfect. One on one wowing him with your superior cooking skills, he’ll want to marry you in a heartbeat.”

“Or he’ll get all awkward and I’ll have to leave, which means he’s going to be cooking ribs for everyone. By himself.”

“Oh. Oh yeah…” Lance winces. “Definitely better to do it after then.”

* * *

Friday comes, and with it an unrelenting feeling of dread. By the timer Hunk and Lance had made for him and sent through the sketchiest of emails, he’s got just a smidge under 24 hours to make his move before, in their words, they drop the bomb for him. Part of him even humours it, the idea of someone else making his confession for him. 

Then he remembers the way the two of them had dared James to ask out that girl from German studies and knows he’s absolutely doomed if that counter strikes zero. 

So when he shows up at Shiro’s that afternoon, jar of dry rub in one hand and a bag of ingredients in the other, its with the weight of knowing this is the last time he’ll be cooking with Shiro before everything changes. After this, there’s no telling where things will go, or if they’ll even continue at all. 

He presses the buzzer for “Shirogane Fucker” and holds his breath. 

He definitely wasn’t going to fuck Shiro, but that didn’t mean one of them wouldn’t be fucked by the time tonight was over.

Against his initial judgements he’s made up his mind. He’ll let a few drinks ease his nerves and confidence, then late at the party tonight, just as people are starting to head out, he’ll confess. If nothing else, it leaves them both with an easy exit and avoid each other all weekend until Monday’s practice. 

Shiro welcomes him in with his usual demeanor, dressed in joggers and a t-shirt whiter than his hair as he waves Keith in. Before he can even take his shoes off Shiro’s taking his bags and offering him a cup of tea before they get started. Keith takes it with both hands and follows him into the narrow little kitchen, watching Shiro putter around and set things out. 

He’ll miss it, he knows, if things all go to hell tonight, but for now he’s going to drink in every moment of it. The tea is hot but not scalding, laced with plenty of honey and has Keith wanting to sink into a comfy armchair and just relax the rest of the afternoon. 

But they have work to do, so begrudgingly, they get started. 

He shows Shiro how to remove silverskin from the backs of the ribs and before long the pitcher is stripping them at a steady pace, smiling as he works a butterknife in between the membranes and meat to work them loose. While he does that Keith pulls out the rest of his supplies from his backpack and sets out on his own task. 

When he pulls out a cleaver from Shiro’s knife block the other man gives him a wary look. 

“We’re not slicing them up now, are we?”

“Nah,” Keith says, already beginning to set up his whetstone and wetting it down. “Last time I was here I noticed some of your knives were a little dull. I figured since you’re more used to using mine now it’d be nice for me to get yours back up in proper order now.” He starts swiping the blade across the surface, one side, then the other, like an intricate fan dance with steel. When he pauses to check his progress, he notices Shiro staring from the corner of his eye. 

“Y’okay?” He knows how Shiro still is around knives. When they’re controlled he’s fine, but any time Keith gets flashy, like that one afternoon he started playing with his butterfly knife, the tendon behind Shiro’s jaw gets tense like it is now. “I know I’m going fast, but it’s plenty safe. I know what I’m doing.”

It might be his imagination, or the light, but he thinks he spies Shiro’s tongue swiping out to lick his lips. 

“I know,” says Shiro, slowly working to clean the next set of ribs. “I was just wondering… are you going to make me do it too?”

Keith glances up from the whetstone, fingers still flipping the blade back and forth across the surface. “What? Sharpen blades like this?”

“Yeah.”

Keith smiles and returns to focus on the task at hand. “Nah… I know what you’re like with knives Shiro, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

There’s a noise, the start of another sentence, but Shiro falls silent, and together they fall back into the rhythm of their respective tasks. By the time Keith’s gone through the majority of Shiro’s knife block, the dozen racks of ribs are ready to be rubbed down. 

Shiro seems a little different in the kitchen today, a little more unsure of himself, Keith realizes. Maybe it’s because he’s not taking control as much as he usually does. Instead of sitting to the side watching he’s joining in, massaging salt and cayenne and his special spice blend into meat side by side. He catches Shiro looking at him more, watching him work and trying to copy it. When they both reach for the rub jar at the same time and their fingers brush, Shiro jumps back just as fast as he does. 

Something was definitely off today, but Keith wasn’t sure he wanted to change that. If this was his last time cooking with Shiro like this, he wanted it to be as equals, not as master and follower. At least then when he confessed to everything tonight, Shiro would hopefully see he was trying to back off out of respect for him. Still, he couldn’t quite stop himself from chiding Shiro here and there, if only because he was slipping up left and right in preparations. 

“You barely even got the back of this one!” Keith grouses, holding up a rack of ribs that was practically naked on one side. “Don’t be afraid to get in there, you have to rub it in hard in order to get it everywhere.” He slaps the rack back down in front of Shiro and glares up at him. “If we’re making my dad’s recipe, we’re making it right. Do it again.”

He watches carefully for the next two racks, scrutinizing every move Shiro makes as he massages salt into the meat, thick fingers working the mix into every nook and cranny. He’s almost slipping up himself, making sure that Shiro’s doing things properly, mouth set into a tight little line until every last square inch of them are dusted in spices. 

“Good…” he hums, a purr creeping in at the very end of his words. “That’s how you’re supposed to do it. Now don’t you dare let me catch you slacking again.”

Shiro bobs his head in acknowledgement and starts on his next one, just as Keith has to turn and bury his face in his shoulder.

_ What was that? He’d caught Shiro making mistakes and had straight up defaulted to his harsher persona, and he hadn’t even been meaning to. It just slipped out. _

_ ‘You guys don’t seem to have figured out the line where play and reality separate’ _ swims in front of Keith’s eyes in mocking size 18 Arial and he has to fight to keep a straight face for the rest of seasoning. Shiro though, Shiro seemed to have perked up a bit, working twice as hard and offering each new completed rack out for Keith’s scrutiny. Most passed the test, but a few mistakes slipped through, ones that Keith couldn’t allow onto the oven. 

After all, considering the fact that he had to content with the reputation of last year’s barbeque king’s recipe, he wasn’t about to make it an easy competition. 

He has Shiro wrap the ribs up in tin foil as he clears the cutting boards, making sure that not even a shred of moisture can escape while they’re in the oven. Low and slow and locking the moisture in, that was what they were doing, and when they got to the party tonight they’d throw them all on the grill for a few minutes to heat and smoke up properly before serving. He caught himself again as Shiro let a ripped piece of foil through, telling him to redo it in a voice laced with the suggestion of penalty before he could stop himself. It was just too easy. It comes naturally to him now, and Shiro follows it so well, better than any instructions Keith gives him in his normal voice. So he pays attention, letting a little bit of it creep out as they wrap the final few racks, but never, never letting it reach that same point it has been once before.

It’s almost a relief when the ribs are in the oven, the two of them kicking back and talking about boring everyday things. Their classes, the gossip from their neighbours they heard through the walls… Shiro even showed him a few choice photos of dogs he’d run into on campus. 

“I ended up chasing this lady down,” he chuckles, showing Keith a photo of a brown Sheltie. “She wasn’t quite sure why I was so insistent on taking a photo of her dog, but he reminded me so much of Kosmo I had to get one for you.”

Keith looks down at the photo. It’s a selfie of Shiro and the pup, no more than a year old and a tiny ball of hair and energy. It’s licking Shiro’s face in the photo, and Shiro’s eyes are closed as he laughs at the feeling of that wet tongue on his face.

“She’s apparently a prof in the bio department, and brings her dog with her to lectures. I think she has a class down by the end of main mall around lunch every tuesday and thursday, so if you’re ever missing Kosmo I figure wandering around there then might be a nice little taste of home for you.”

Keith nods, still looking at the photo, and quietly hits “email” from the options. 

He wants to save this, no matter what.

They both work their way through a bag of pita chips and guac, talking about weird teacher stories until Keith glances at the clock and reminds Shiro they need to start on the sauce. 

It’s a massive list of ingredients, in amounts so abstract the closest Keith’s ever gotten to writing down a recipe is just listing the twenty or so things that go into it. He’s brought them all, and they take up nearly half of the counter to the side of the stove, effectively giving him the space the size of a dinner mat to work on whipping up a batch of cornbread as well. In reality he knows he should be the one making the sauce and not Shiro, but this is a quickbread and not yeasted, which means he won’t get to take in the sight of Shiro’s muscles working to knead the dough out and if that’s enough of an excuse to have the pitcher hanging onto his every word and move well… Keith was using excuses. So shoot him. 

Besides, while it’s not the gym and not dough, watching the ripple of Shiro’s biceps through his tight shirt as he tries to squeeze every last drop of ketchup out of the bottle is still something, and Keith’s only human. He can indulge himself once in a while. 

Vinegar and molasses get added as well and Shiro brings the milk to a boil as Keith sifts together dry ingredients. Brown sugar’s added next and a few minutes later Keith watches right over Shiro’s shoulder as he adds mustard and liquid smoke. He almost misses adding in baking powder as Shiro drizzles in some Worcheshire, he’s so focused on the colours swirling in the pot. As the mix begins to bubble and darken in colour he prepares himself for the next stage. 

“Give me a taste.” There’s an edge of nerves to Keith’s words as he leans over, chin hovering by Shiro’s shoulder, but he holds firm. The spoon’s brought to his lips and Keith pulls away, smacking his tongue and trying to work out what’s missing. Shiro continues to watch him, spoon still held out, and it takes a second for Keith to realize why. 

“You can try it to,” he says, still running his tongue around the inside of his cheeks. It’s a little too sweet and not quite salty enough. A bit more vinegar and some salt need to go in, then they can start on spices. Shiro carefully takes a taste from the tip, before returning to stirring. 

He futzes with the ratios a bit more, until the base is where it should be. By then he’s got his buttermilk and honey beaten in with his butter and added to the bread, greasing and flouring up his pans as he starts talking Shiro through the spices they’ll need. As he’s pouring the batter into them Shiro holds up the ladle to him again for another taste, and he takes it without question. 

“Needs more garlic powder,” he says, still scraping the bowl. “And add in four cranks of pepper too.” Shiro does as he’s told, and before Keith knows it the spoon is back, hovering insistently at his lips until he takes his next taste. “Better. Now we can work on heat. Grab the cayenne.”

He loops around the kitchen, trying to work himself and the two tins through the narrow gap between Shiro’s rear and the sink. He’s so focused on trying to make sure his hips don’t touch Shiro’s, that his crotch doesn’t brush against that firm ass as he sucks in through the space that he doesn’t catch Shiro circling around for him again until it’s too late. 

The ladle collides with the pan in Keith’s left hand and batter and sauce go flying. Everything slows to a crawl as the pan soars towards his face, a great stripe of burgundy making its way towards him and all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to hit. The pan slaps into the side of his head, and the gooey batter smears itself into his hair and ear like a great gloppy tongue as it bounces off him. A flash of heat sizzles on his cheek like the strike of a whip as the sauce makes contact with his skin and Keith’s doubling in on himself, trying to recoil from the rest of it. From the undersides of his eyelashes he just makes out Shiro’s face, white as a sheet and mouth pulled into a grimace, his hands scrabbling to save the other pan. 

There’s a great crash as something metal connects with metal and Shiro yells. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there they find themselves, barbecue sauce all over Shiro's tiddies
> 
> and yes... yes I couldn't resist, okay?

The next time Keith opens his eyes he’s on the floor, the tiles stained yellow and red and a shadow over his face.

Shiro.

The pitcher is sprawled out in front of Keith one hand outstretched in front of him holding the lip of the pot. And down his front, soaking into his shirt and sliding down his thighs is the sauce, thick and hot and pooling on the floor where they lay. It takes a second for everything to register to Keith, the pot, his position, Shiro in front of him, barbeque sauce dripping down his chest, and then he’s surging forwards, pushing the hot metal out of Shiro’s hand and trying to wipe the mess off the other’s arm and where it’s slashed across the bridge of his nose.

“Shiro! Are you okay?” Goddammit, the skin under the sauce on Shiro is raw, Keith doesn’t doubt that the skin under the splash across his own face is too, but right now all he can focus on is cleaning the worst of it off Shiro before a proper burn sets in.

A finger swipes at the mess on his own cheek. Shiro, looking at him like he’s just seen a ghost, smearing it back into the cool pasty batter of the now ruined bread. It’s soothing on Keith’s burn, and he’s leaning into the feeling before he knows it, letting Shiro press it even further into his bangs and hair as he looks him over.

“Are you? Keith… I’m so sorry. I turned around to look for you and I didn’t know you were behind me and I’m so sorry… I’m so so sorry!” His forehead is creased, sauce still dripping down his neck and into the valley of his cleavage. Keith stares as a fat glob slips under the collar of his shirt and between those pecs.

“I’m okay,” he says, voice shakier than he’d like. His hands are on Shiros chest before he can stop them, trying to work the sauce off of it but he’s pretty sure he’s just making it worse, working even more of it into the fabric of his shirt. “But you… you’re covered in it. How did… the whole pot tipped?”

“I hit it I think… while trying to catch the tin. I don’t know, it all happened so fast, but the next thing I knew it was tipping over and about to spill onto you and…” Shiro bit his lip, tugging up the hem of his shirt to get more sauce off Keith’s face.

Even all the shock and adrenaline racing through Keith’s veins couldn’t stop him from staring at Shiro’s abs staring back at him under the cover of Shiro’s stained shirt.

“I’m so sorry about your clothes Keith, I can try and wash them for you. We’ve got….” Shiro glances at the kitchen clock, “... another half an hour until the ribs have to come out, is that enough time? I can give you something to change into in the meantime… or you could shower. I don’t think that mess is coming out of your hair, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay…” Keith breathes, still catching up to everything. “I’m… I’m okay. I don’t think I got burned that bad, but you… Shiro… you’re covered in it.”

“I’ll be okay,” he says, helping Keith onto his feet and continuing to wipe the worst of the mess off him. The entire front of his shirt looks more like an inkblot test than clothing, sauce nearly soaked through to his skin. “It stings a bit… but not that bad. I’m just glad you didn’t get the brunt of it.”

“But you…”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Shiro urges, now steering Keith towards the bathroom. “I’ll be okay, but right now we need to get you cleaned up. God....” Keith glances over his shoulder as Shiro spaces out at the ceiling as he continues to push him towards the door. “I messed up bad… so bad…”

Keith’s about to tell him it’s not that bad, that Shiro’s in far worse condition than him, but right then there’s the snap of a lock and Shiro stops dead in his tracks.

“Is that Roy?” Keith asks. Shiro’s frozen still, staring at the front door like a deer in the headlights.

“He’s not supposed to be home yet…” The words leave Shiro like the last puffs of air from a squeak toy before Kosmo demolishes it. “Oh god… he wasn’t supposed to be back until five… fuck… fuck _fuck fuck!”_

Keith’s almost thrown flat on his face for the second time in less than five minutes as Shiro shoves him into the bathroom and slams the door shut after him.

With himself on the same side.

“Shiro…” Keith backs up in the cramped space until he’s against the rim of the tub. “Why are you in here too? Why’s Roy being here a problem?”

“It’s… it’s complicated,” Shiro bites, sliding down the door as Roy’s footsteps fill the hall behind them.

“It can’t be that ba-” Keith starts, but Shiro shushes him as Roy’s shouting fills the apartment.

“ _SHIRO WHAT THE HELL?! WHAT HAPPENED IN THE KITCHEN?”_

Shiro winces where he sits against the wall and calls back through gritted teeth. “I had an accident!”

“I can see that! What the fuck man? It’s like a murder scene in there! Get out here and clean!”

Shiro’s adam’s apple bobs as he waves Keith towards the shower, eyes squeezed shut. “In a bit! I… I spilled a bunch on myself I need to get it off.” He glances up, eyes pleading at Keith not to talk. “Just… just give me 20 to clean off!”

There’s a knock on the door and both of them jump. Roy’s just one layer of plywood away from them.

“Okay…” comes his voice from the other side. Keith can hear the anger in his voice, simmering under the surface. “But hurry it the fuck up. I’m bringing a date over here later tonight and I’m not having this one thinking I live like a slob thanks to you.”

“I will… don’t worry…” Shiro sighs, waving at Keith to get into the tub and start the water. “Believe me, I wasn’t intending to ruin the kitchen this afternoon.”

“Yeah, well, I know it happens but be a bit more careful. I know I told you you can’t have any more kinky cooking parties anymore, but if this is your way of sulking it’s annoying as all fuck.”

Keith’s head whips around so fast he feels his neck spasm in protest.

Against the door, Shiro goes still. There’s nothing, no sound between them besides the pounding of shower water into the tub, not even a breath as they stare at each other in shock.

“What?” Keith’s voice cracks.

Shiro whips a finger to his lips, desperately trying to shush Keith a second time.

“ _What?”_ he repeats, louder this time, and Shiro’s scrabbling across the bathroom to the side of the tub, slicing at his neck with his hand as violently as he can.

“Please Keith!” he whisper-shouts. “I… I’ll explain later, but now’s not the time! If… if Roy realizes I have you over… trust me, it’s not good.”

“ _Why?_ ” Keith’s standing in the shower, left sleeve getting wet as he glares down at Shiro. Shiro wasn’t supposed to have him over? It was his freaking apartment, what the hell was Roy getting off on? How dare he tell Shiro who he could and couldn’t have over, what he could and couldn’t do? That wasn’t his place… it was…

It… it _wasn’t_ his place either.

With a sigh he steps further into the water and tugs the curtain shut. He can just make out Shiro’s form slumping against the tub, back to him as he strips off his shirt and then his pants, dropping both of them onto the bathroom floor with a wet _thup._

“I’ll stay quiet for now,” he says, watching orange trails of sauce swirl down the drain, eyebrows pulled together in a frown, “but as soon as we’re in the clear you’ve got some explaining to me to do. In the meantime… _don’t look_.”

They stay in silence as Keith cleans himself off. Shiro doesn’t even move as Keith soaps up and starts lathering shampoo into his hair. The cornbread batter is gooey and hard to get out, the hot water almost turning it into a glue-like paste. His eyes wander as he works it out, eventually landing on the shadow of Shiro’s head just beside his hip.

The reality that he’s naked within inches of Shiro hits him like a truck, and within seconds of that comes another 18-wheeler, bowling him over with a second revelation.

Shiro knows he’s naked. Shiro knows he’s naked and standing right beside him, slathered in soap and the remnants of their cooking. As he swipes a handful of bodywash across his stomach he feels a stab of heat flaring up in his stomach.

He shouldn’t find it this hot, but he does.

His eyes stay locked on Shiro’s head as he continues to wash himself, searching for any sign he’s aware of what Keith’s doing just inches from him. His fingers wander over his chest and across his nipples, raking nails over the sensitive skin and making him hiss at the sensation.

No response from Shiro. It makes him bolder, fingers pinching at his buds and and playing with himself as he fights to contain his voice, letting a little noise escape every so often in the hopes of catching Shiro’s head jerk, but it stays staring determinedly forwards, like a statue, resolute on giving Keith the privacy he deserves.

He continues to play with his chest with one hand as he continues to work the dough out of his hair, hand slipping across his stomach every so often as he fights to keep himself under control. It’s so fucking wrong and he knows it, but when is he ever going to be in a place like this again, living some weird, perverted fantasy in real life? In his head he’s imagining Shiro turning around, whipping the curtain back and staring up at him with eyes full of lust, taking Keith in his arms and…

Keith sucks in a breath, fingers ghosting lower, and with a sudden jerk, realizes just how far he’s let himself go. His cock is jutting out proudly from his hips, stiff and aching to be touched, far too hard to go away with just cold water and the memory of walking in on his uncles when he was eight. Maybe he can jerk himself off quickly… get it to go back down before Shiro starts wondering what’s taking him so long.

Eyes squeezed shut, Keith takes himself in his hand, willing himself for the fastest and quietest orgasm of his life. He was already going to have one awkward as hell talk with Shiro later today… he didn’t need to add anymore fuel to the fire… but _fuck,_ he had to take care of this somehow.

And right then, as he slowly pumps himself towards completion, come four little words that have his blood running cold.

“Shiro, I’m coming in.”

Keith’s eyes fly wide open, body frozen as he hears the doorknob turn, hears the creak of the door and the snap of the shower curtain as Shiro rips it back and dives inside with Keith.

Only to come face to face with his weeping dick, so close to Shiro’s face he can feel the other man’s hot breath on near the tip.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes. They’re both statues, water running over them, Shiro dressed, Keith naked and halfway to climax, dick in hand, as Shiro’s roommate moves around the bathroom looking for god knows what.

Every nerve in Keith’s body is screaming at him to run, to bolt out of there, straight down the hall and out into the night away from this all, never to be seen again. He’s dead. He’s so fucking dead he’s seven feet under and still going, falling down to the final circle of hell before he even breathes his last breath. There’s no coming back from this. There’s no way to recovering from jacking off in your crush’s shower, not when he’s on his hands and knees right in front of you, barbeque sauce all over his tits and washing down the drain as he’s face to face with your red hands wrapped around your dick.

Neither of them says a word as drawers slam open and closed, whatever Roy was looking for clearly not there.

Keith feels like his entire body is red with mortification right now, but even so, he feels his cheeks darken even further as Shiro’s eyes slide down his naked body to land square on the head of his cock, staring him straight in the face.

From the other side of the curtain, Roy calls out.

“Where are the condoms? Dude… I swear there was a brand new box here just last week.”

Shiro licks his lips, eyes sliding back up Keith’s body and mercifully away from his dick. “Uh… maybe… did you check the hall closet? Otherwise, I might have a few on top of my dresser.”

Roy grumbles from where he stands just feet from them, and then… _thank god…_ his footsteps begin to fade away. It’s not until the sound of the door clicking closed makes it to Keith’s ears does he realize he’s been holding his breath this entire time. It leaves him with a shaky sigh that rattles his entire body.

This is it.

 _Game over._ Keith prepares himself for the worst, for the look of shock and disgust on Shiro’s face as he pulls himself out of the tub. Of the fight that’s no doubt about to follow, and the slam of the front door after him as he’s kicked out. He screws his eyes shut, ready for the worst of it, but it never comes.

Instead, he feels a hand working it’s way around his own, guiding it away from his hips and down to his side. And another… another hand resting itself of his hip and holding steady, nails digging into his too-hot skin, waiting.

Keith cracks open an eye.

Shiro is on his knees, feet folded under him, staring up at him like he’s the only thing in the universe. No anger… no disgust… only patience. Patience for… for…

Keith’s hand creeps up to cover his face as Shiro’s eyes flick down to Keith’s erection, then back up to Keith, as if looking for permission. From the corner of his mouth Shiro’s tongue darts out, sliding over his lips so obscenely it has Keith’s dick rehardening at the sight of it.

 _This can’t be real… but it is_. Shiro’s kneeling in front of him… waiting to suck him off.

Tongue still locked to the roof of his mouth, Keith can only nod.

Wet heat wraps around his member so fast Keith doesn’t know how Shiro manages it, his dick sliding down his throat like butter, and god… is it like butter, smooth and silky on his aching cock as Shiro slides him in to the root, puffs of air from his nose tickling Keith’s hips. He stays there, holding Keith in his throat, tongue tickling the underside of Keith’s cock as he struggles to stay still, before suddenly swallowing.

Keith’s gotten head a few times in his life, but never quite like this.

Shiro’s throat squeezes down around the tip of his cock, threatening to swallow it deeper still and Keith’s eyes roll back at the feeling. _Fuck… it felt so good,_ Shiro just holding him there, drool slowly pooling on his tongue as he gently milked Keith’s length. It’s too much, way, _way too much_ , and Keith had to grab Shiro by his bangs and pull him back off to keep from coming right then and there.

Shiro’s lips are shiny with spit and pre, and Keith swears they’ve gotten pinker in the short time they’ve been wrapped around him. His eyes are distant… misty… looking up at Keith with a sleepy confusion as if he can’t quite process why Keith’s dick is no longer in his mouth. Butterflies squirming in Keith’s stomach, he rubs a hand down Shiro’s cheek. Somewhere inside him, something rumbles at the feeling of Shiro pressing into the touch,

“You wanting to make me feel good?” His voice is richer than chocolate mousse, darker than night as he continues to rub Shiro’s cheek. It feels good, it feels _right_ , having Shiro here in the palm of his hand. “You want it so bad you almost did it with your roommate right there, about to catch us, didn’t you?”

Shiro whines, tongue darting out to lap at the tip of Keith’s cock. His pupils are blown. Only a slight halo of grey surrounds the twin eclipses of black. Keith rocks into the feeling of it, Shiro’s lips wrapping around his head in a kiss before he pulls away again, watching him chase it.

“Part of you wanted him to catch us, didn’t you?” Keith’s not sure where this boldness is coming from, but he’ll be damned if he stops, every response from Shiro to it is liquid gold, hanging onto his every word like the oxygen he needs to live. Another stripe is licked up his cock as he rocks forwards again. “Part of you wanted him to know, didn’t it? Didn’t it?”

Shiro nods, now kissing up Keith’s length before taking the tip in his mouth to swirl around his tongue. “Yes…” he moans around Keith’s dick, “Yes… I… ever since that night… since he saw _that.... Fuck Keith!”_ He takes half of Keith’s length in his mouth, making his cheek bulge with it’s girth. “Fuck… I _knew…_ I knew what I wanted.”

Heat is mounting in Keith’s belly anew, bubbling up stronger with every word Shiro gets out around his dick. He’s babbling now… mumbling with his mouth full and Keith lets him, going along for the ride as the vibrations of his voice travel down his cock and up his spine.

“He… he said he didn’t want to catch us eye fucking again in front of him, but _god… Keith… that?_ The way you had me then… totally yours… it was so hot… so freaking hot…”

“Did you get hard? Hard like you are now?” Keith worms his toes between Shiro’s legs, rubbing at the soaking tent that’s pitched in Shiro’s pants. Shiro gasps, almost pulling full off Keith’s cock but he’s held back by his hair and eased back down the length, until the only sounds he can make are hums and grunts.

Deep in Shiro’s throat, Keith feels every last noise pleasure that confirms what his ears want to hear. He plays with Shiro’s dick more, letting Shiro rut up against his foot as he thrusts shallowly into Shiro’s throat, testing the other man’s limits.

“So you’re telling me… when you disappeared…”

Shiro hums, hums so loud Keith can feel it in his bones as he sinks into the hilt and holds himself there. “ _Ufh-huhhh. Tuuu haaaaah... Haa to weeeve…”_ He swallows, pulling back and beginning to fuck his throat fully on Keith’s dick. _“Yuuu… sohh hawwt Keef… soh haw… I...”_

He pops off Keith’s dick, cheeks flushed, hair a complete and total mess, but in Keith’s eyes he’s never been more beautiful than in this moment. His heart hammers in his chest, staring down into those deep, warm pools that are Shiro’s eyes.

“I… I definitely like you more than as a friend. Like...”

“ _Like_ like?”

“Yes…” Shiro groans, licking another stripe up Keith’s cock. “I _like_ you so much Keith… so so much… I don’t even know how… or when, but-”

“Me too...” Keith’s chest is seconds away from exploding, adrenaline and euphoria shooting through him in equal parts. “Fuck… this isn’t what I was expecting tonight… I wasn’t… I thought… _damn,_ ” he chokes, and this time it has nothing to do with what kind of sorcery Shiro’s mouth is performing on his dick. “I… I was going to tell you tonight… tell you I lov-”

 _-e you_ is silenced on his lips as he’s pulled down on top of Shiro, the two of them falling to the floor of the tub as Shiro takes Keith’s tongue with his own. It’s warm and tastes of spice and sweat, of both him and Keith and for a moment Keith’s swept up in the feeling of it slipping around the inside of his mouth, tasting him, before he wrestles control back, working his way deeper into Shiro’s. The pitcher opens up easily, letting Keith inside with a wet mewl as the kiss deepens.

A hand slips between where their hips meet, and with a jolt Keith feels flushed skin against his cock, hard and throbbing as Shiro takes them both in his fist. Keith rocks against him, rutting up into Shiro’s hand and dick, Shiro’s tongue the only thing keeping him from crying out as he comes only seconds later. Shiro follows soon after, painting both their stomachs with a second bout of come, the two of them still pressed together, gasping as they come down from their respective orgasms. He should be embarrassed about coming so fast, but right now, pressed against Shiro’s chest, hips slotted together, all he can focus on is how _right_ this feels and how he can’t wait to do it again.

It’s Shiro who moves first, wrapping an arm around Keith’s waist and stroking up and down the curve of his spine. They lay there for some time, until the water starts to run lukewarm instead of hot, and Keith starts to regain blood to other parts of his body.

“So…” Shiro coughs, fingers working through Keith’s hair. “I… uh… kinda found out recently I’m into some weird things. Stuff that I’m not exactly sure how to tell you how I found out were kinks of mine…”

Keith sits up on Shiro’s chest, chin propped on top of his hands on top of Shiro’s pecs. He can feel the back of the neck go hot as he looks at Shiro with the same guilty expression Kosmo has after chewing his socks.

“Uh… does the word puppy relate to it somehow?”

Shiro’s cheeks tint pink. “A… a little. And… uh… maybe dom… and uh...”

Keith kisses his chin. “I think I have an idea. And don’t worry… I think we’re _pretty_ _compatible_ in that regard.”

* * *

Shiro sucks in one final breath, and, eyes locked to Keith, lets his body move. His shoulder rolls back, wrist following. His heel lifts, body balanced on a single point as he holds there for a second, wound tight, then with the power of a spring he launches forwards, hand swinging forwards hard and fast with a final snap at release.

He watches, ball spinning, as it makes its way towards home plate. Towards the batter, dancing at the plate ready to strike, and towards Keith, eyes set, easy smile on his face as he crouches lower… prepares himself…

And snaps Shiro’s pitch up cleanly into the depths of his glove.

 _Three strikes_.

_Three outs._

_They’ve won_.

The stadium erupts in noise, the stands suddenly a sea of hands and head and pennants as the announcer screams over the speakers, trying not to be drowned out over the din.

_“LIONS WIN! LIONS WIN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE NEW CHAMPIONS OF THE EASTERN COLLEGE LEAGUE, THE ALTEA LIONS!”_

Something slams into Shiro’s back, then another something, and another, and he’s swarmed by the rest of the team, wrapped five layers deep in their arms as they scream and bounce and cry in their huddle. For some of them it’s been three years of blood, sweat, and tears to get here, and _fuck_ … it’s everything they hoped for and more. Gone is the pain of last year’s loss, gone is fight to pick themselves back up afterwards. Every moment, clawing back tooth and nail has been worth it all, and Shiro’ll be damned if he cries through the entirety of the awards ceremony. Here in the huddle is where tears will stay.

But it’s not complete. Shiro looks out onto the field, and there, running down the line from home, glove discarded, mask being ripped from his face is Keith, eyes shining like Shiro’s never seen them before.

He elbows his way out of the team huddle, racing his way down the mound to meet Keith on the green, the catcher jumping into his arms so fast he nearly stumbles back into the fray.

“You did it!” Keith’s voice is almost drunk in it’s excitement, energy from it thrumming through Shiro’s core as he wraps his legs around Shiro’s waist. His hands are on Shiro’s face, shoving his cap off and bringing their lips together before Shiro can even get his reply out. Behind him the team whoops, Lance yelling “ _get a room!”_ , but Shiro doesn’t care, even if Keith flips him off as they continue kissing until they’ve both run out of air and Shiro’s head is spinning.

“We did it,” he gasps, still breathless as Keith pulls back before diving in for a second. There’s a nip on his bottom lip, and a growl, and Shiro feels the stirrings of something in his belly as Keith’s thighs tighten around him as he pulls himself up Shiro’s trunk.

“Hell yeah,” Keith grunts, fingers running through Shiro’s hair. “Guess what good boy’s getting a reward tonight. Anything you want… so long as I have my fun too.”

Shiro chuckles, letting his hands roam down to cup Keith’s ass and squeeze. “Is that so? Because I’ve got some plans for _this-”_ he squeezes again, “here that I think’ll go over _very_ well.”

“I’m listening puppy,” Keith smiles, planting one more kiss on Shiro’s temple as he works his weight back further into Shiro’s palms. “And I’ve got something else for you… something you’ll just have to wait to see.” Shiro whines, but Keith taps his nose and he knows they’ll continue later, someplace where hundreds of people aren’t watching.

“Hey, uh, guys…” Matt is standing beside them with his hand on his hip. “I know you’re super gross and in love, but you want to celebrate with the rest of us or what?”

Keith cocks an eyebrow at Shiro with a look so simpering it’s hard to believe this is the same man who’d gotten red looking at the contents of Shiro’s private toybox.

“Sorry Matt,” he says, hiking Keith higher around his waist. “Think I’ll have to go with what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! That's a wrap! I'm debating if I write an epilogue of their post-win sex, but because I wasn't sure what to go with for bedroom dynamic (who tops? do they switch? do they use toys/restraints?) that I figured I'd leave this at this for now. 
> 
> If you have any thoughts on the matter let me know! As always, thanks for reading, and any comments/kudos you have are much appreciated! Ninight guys and happy Shiro bday! <33


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